Not so easily deduced
by PlanetStefani
Summary: For the first time in a long time-or perhaps ever, Sherlock finds himself unable to deduce his way to a conclusion-and he doesn't like it. How will John's mysterious friend leave Sherlock clueless? Rated M for language, drinking and sexual situations
1. Chapter 1

John awoke from a delightful dream. Funny enough, the dream pertained to the person in question, who awoke him from said delight.

"John," he felt a hard nudge against his back.

John grumbled, pulling the sheets up higher, trying to bring himself back to the dream. John had dreamt about Sherlock and not in the way everyone thought he dreamt of Sherlock. No, in this dream, his dear- and rather irritating friend had succumbed to a mysterious form of laryngitis. This mysterious sickness though was heaven on earth. Since _A Study in Pink_, Sherlock had spent days going on about how bored he was. It was never ending. He waved his hands around in the air and pointed to his throat in urgency. 'Oh no,' John had cried sarcastically, 'not your voice!'

"John," the real life version of his dream hissed, pushing with greater force against his shoulder. John uncurled himself with a sigh, wishing just once that he'd be able to wake without the eager help of Mr. Holmes.

"You know, I was having a delightful dream," John said, throwing the blankets off him and walking pass the alarm clock with no snooze. "You had no voice." He slipped his feet into his slippers and walked out of the room.

"John," Sherlock said for a third time, now irritated and following him out of the room. "Would you care to explain?"

John shot him an exasperated look; mentally telling himself that by now, he shouldn't be surprised at how incredibly stupid a man so intelligent could be.

"You wake _me_ out of bed and want _me_ to explain?" He asked, walking down the corridor into the living area.

"Are you still sleeping?" Sherlock asked, not understanding how dull-minded 'normal' people could be.

John shot him another look of disbelief, continuing his way down the hall. Sherlock sighed angrily, pushing pass John to beat him to the living room.

"This!" He spat, extending his arm into the room.

John shook his head and sighed, expecting to find the corps of a man and asking why Mrs. Hudson had moved it, or why John had not done something to it, like he had 'asked' while he wasn't there. The only good thing to come from this was the possibility that Sherlock had found himself something to do.

To his surprise, John walked in to find the sleeping silhouette of a woman hiding under a long coat, using it as a makeshift blanket. On her feet was a pair of tall, high fashioned heels that looked extremely uncomfortable. From under the coat a knee length, navy dress could be seen, hugging her body tightly all the way from its hem, to its long-sleeved top. Her nails were almond shaped and painted a dark shade of green. Her messy, brown, curly hair had been tied up in a messy bun, obviously done before she had found her spot on the couch.

"Mrs. Hudson said she showed up this morning at 4am, saying she was your sister. I know your sister, this is not your sister, who is she?" Sherlock asked, more irritated that he could not deduce the relationship, then the fact that a mysterious woman was in their flat.

John ignored him completely, taking his turn now to push pass him. His face had been drained from color and was replaced with immediate worry.

"Rooney?" John said quickly, dropping down to see the woman on the couch.

"Rooney, dear?" He whispered.

Sherlock noted his use of the work 'dear'.

"Rooney, wake up," his hand gently pushed away the fallen strands or hair on her cheek.

The small woman on the couch squirmed, quickly shooting her hands over her eyes before peering out of them with a groan. John's brows furrowed deeper, trying to convince his own self that this wasn't what it seemed.

"John?" Her voice was hoarse and rough. "Oh, John," she said taking the hand on her cheek with both of hers. "John I'm sorry," she moaned. "I fell off the wagon."

"Shh, its okay," John said, putting on a fake smile and rubbing away the loose hairs.

"Its okay, I should have been watching you," he said sadly.

Rooney shook her head, rubbing her head with her hand and groaning.

"I was doing good, but I couldn't help it."

"How long this time?" He asked while Sherlock watched this touching moment, quickly going to work on what he saw.

This woman was clearly well off, by the attire she wore. She took good care of herself, at least physically; judging by her well kept brows and painted, manicured hands. From the scoop neckline though, he could see the top a long tattoo that trailed down her, telling him that she was well off but earned it. Not many who were born with money marked themselves. This was also backed up by the scar under her lip where a fad piercing once was. Anyone with money could get the scar removed but she didn't. It did not bother her which showed that she had put it there herself. On her elbows and legs he could see bruises, fresh and old, leaving only two possibilities, she was either abused or clumsy. By the way she took no effort to hide them, he could comfortably assume she did them on her own. While the ones on her legs concluded her clumsiness, the ones on her arms said otherwise. There were also scraps, showing that she had fallen, which may have been from the heels, but from the muscles in her legs it was clear she was used to and fully capable of walking in them. So, by the scraps and bruises along with the stain in her lap, he could conclude finally that, like his sister, she was an alcoholic.

"I started drinking last Monday… And I guess I just hadn't gotten around to stopping till now," she admitted. Sherlock gave a smirk. Of course he was right.

As for their relationship though, that was still to be deduced.

John sighed hard.

"Come on then," he said, taking her in his arms and easily picking her up. She looked to be hardly 45kg, both by how easily he picked her up and how the tight dress seemed to be loose on her, showing that she wasn't always this small.

Sherlock watched as he brought her up to his room, still trying to figure out who she was to him and what she did. A small smile crept over him as he sat in his chair, clasping his hands together and thinking. He did love a challenge.

John came back down twenty minutes later and went straight to the kitchen. His eyes were hardened and sad. Rooney was usually as a spunky young woman, very playful and—even a little bit of a smart ass. He knew how this happened, but it was the _why_. Even at that though, he knew he might not want to know.

Going to the fridge, John poured a glass of water, not noticing that Sherlock was still in the living area.

"She's a family friend—" Sherlock said quick and loud, causing John to jump and drop the glass. This however did not stop the over thinking man from talking. "—This explains the obvious care for her. You either love her, or have loved her, but push pass it because she only sees you as a brother. Sad," he said with a smirk, "but you console yourself with the prospect that you don't _actually_ love her. As for who she is, herself, she is clearly an important person; either a political woman, taken by her attire, or the president of a company, from the clear signs that she worked for her money. Judging by the tattoo peering from her dress though, and the scar from an atrocious piercing I'd say president of a company, leaving her with something you all call _self expression._"

John looked at his angrily; ready to give him yet another speech on timing and inappropriateness. It wasn't till he noticed his words that his expression changed.

"Wrong," he said with a surprised grin "both of those are wrong." He couldn't help but smile widely.

Sherlock's brows furrowed, not enjoying whatever John was playing.

"What do you mean, wrong? Its all quite obvious," he hissed.

John gave him another look of disbelief, but this one was plastered with amusement.

"No, Rooney isn't a family friend, in fact her parents are dead. As for the whole bit about love well—that's a different story," John said, flustered, but quickly moving on. "But as for the career, Rooney is far from a business woman," he laughed. "She's an—" John was about to tell him, but noticed the look on his face. It had turned into a sour expression, not enjoying being told he was wrong.

"Well," he said, feeling a little cheeky "I guess Ill let you figure it out."

Sherlock glared at him angrily. Perhaps this wasn't as fun as he thought.

**Sorry if this first one isn't all that exciting, but it needed to start somewhere right? This is actually the first time I've written in a very long time, five years to be exact, so I'd love some feedback, please! :)**  
**I'm trying to keep all the characters as authentic as possible, but imagination sometimes takes over! That's were you come in! :D**  
**Thanks,**

**Stefani **


	2. Chapter 2

It took Rooney almost two days before she could bring herself to completely get out of John's bed, which was only to be expected. She was gone eight days, eight straight days of blackouts and strangers, eight days of false bravery and stupid decisions. There was a reason why she stopped drinking.

John kindly made a spot for himself on the couch, despite Rooney's arguing. The arguing didn't last very long though. If it wasn't for her having to stop to throw up, it was John being so good at persuading her. And he was o' so good at persuading her. It was he who got her to stop drinking the last three times. It wasn't easy. It wasn't pretty, but a promise was a promise.

On the third day, John came up to find Rooney lying on her side, waiting for him to come in.

"Ah, she's alive!" John said with a wholehearted smile.

Rooney smiled back at him, showing for the first time since she had arrived, the true Rooney.

"Oh, John!" She swooned, placing the back of her hand over her forehead; taking an "o' woe is me" pose in the sheets. "Wherever have I been these last few weeks?"

"I see you're feeling much better."

"You could say that," she sighed, sitting up in his bed.

"You want to tell me what happened this time?" He asked with a forced smile. Rooney's eyes saddened, knowing that look all too well. He was looking at her, forcing himself not to look completely disappointed. His clenched fists were hidden hard and deep in the pockets of his open house robe.

"Sit with me," she said, patting a place beside her.

John complied, sitting beside the small woman in his bed. Only four years ago, John would have been overjoyed by the prospect of Rooney asking him to join him in bed. Now though, it only made him feel sad; like a brother trying not to sound too disappointed in his sister.

"How have you been, my dear John?" She asked as soon as he had sat down.

"What happened, Rooney?" John asked, not letting her get away with a subject change. Rooney couldn't help but smile a little. He was persistent, and even though she sometimes hated it, it did in fact save her many times.

"It was the two year anniversary of my debut piece," Rooney began. John looked at her a bit confused. She was referring to the eight-foot tall statue she had made after the death of her brother. It was a gigantic piece, at least for her. She had started the day her brother died and continued for a year straight. She did nothing but sculpt, sleep, sometimes eat, then start all over again. The piece itself wasn't directly about her brother; it was apiece showcasing a woman, who seemed to be re-growing as a tree. So much had been put into in. It looked so sad and heartbreaking, but it was beautiful. In a way, it was easily the representation of Rooney's mourning. It was how she coped and felt. It took less than a week for a gallery to present it and before she knew it, she was off to Paris to start her career as a sculptor. It was all a bittersweet feeling, as her career was all tied to her brother. His death was the seed of her career and now she had no one to be proud of her. It wasn't long after that that she had fallen into her first binge.

"And you decided to drink for eight days to celebrate?" His words weren't intended to be judgmental, but she felt their weight anyway.

"No, I mean, not really," Rooney scraped at the paint over her nails. "It started with a glass of champagne. I was at the gallery—and I was doing fine! I had one then stopped. But then a man from Art Monthly came—He asked about the piece, then about Mickey, and…and then I was gone."

_Mickey._

That was a name John hadn't thought of in a while. At least not since he came back to London, not since Sherlock and his talent for keeping his mind occupied. He often crossed his mind before that though. The promise he had made. _Take care of her, she's a wreck._ That she was.

"How did you get to London?" John suddenly asked.

Rooney laughed a little.

"I had an interview umm…what are we? Wednesday?"

"Thursday, actually."

"Right, then three days ago, Tuesday? I had an interview Tuesday. I flew in Tuesday morning." John pursed his lips. Rooney laughed again. He hadn't changed at all; he was still making those faces. "Clearly I missed it!" She laughed, indifferent.

How she kept such a successful career this way, he didn't know.

"How long were you staying?" He asked, suddenly noticing how she was still in the same dress she had arrived in; it hadn't even crossed neither of their minds for her to change. It wasn't as though she had gone very far anyway.

"That's a very good question. I'd like to say I'm living out of my suit case right now, but I don't remember if I brought a suit case," Rooney scratched the back of her head thoughtfully.

"You mean, you don't have your place in Paris anymore?" He asked, concerned.

"No, I sold that dreadful place three months ago, everything is at my studio—" she explained, still trying to remember if she had actually thought to pack a bag when she left Paris. Was she even sober? She knew she had her purse, somewhere in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, though she didn't know why it was there either. "—Now Dr. Watson, would you offer me a shower, or will you continue to let me go on like this?!" She asked, acting theatrical once again.

John smiled sweetly.

Sherlock was still in his _thinking chair _when John had come down without Rooney for a third day now. It was starting to irritate him. How was he able to put the pieces of this wretched puzzle together if he had no clues? John had purposely remained silent. He enjoyed seeing him like this, mostly because he knew as soon as Rooney would come down; it would probably take him all of five minutes to put it all together. Then his fun would be over. Luckily a new case had finally risen; that kept him busy for at least eight hours a day. Unfortunately, he still found time to ambush John with questions about Rooney. A new hope rose in him though when he heard the shower start.

John put the kettle on before sitting in his own chair as he waited. Across from him, he saw Sherlock staring at him, his eyes concentrated and his fingers pressed into each other.

"What?" John finally asked, annoyed when he didn't say anything.

"Nothing," Sherlock had a mischievous smirk on his lips.

"It's not nothing, it's always something with you," John said with an untrusting grimace.

"Well, this something is nothing," he said, not losing any of the amusement. Sherlock knew; he knew that finally he'd be able to put rest this ridiculous fun John was having.

John was about to spit back a futile response when Mrs. Hudson saved him from digging deeper in the pointless banter.

"John?" She called, noisily coming up the steps, her small heels clapping against the stairs.

"Yes?" He asked eagerly, turning his head to the stairs.

"Oh, John dear, I finally just remembered," the sweet woman said, coming in with a heavy bag she held with both hands in front of her.

John quickly jumped to his feet, hurrying to take the bag from the fragile woman.

"Oh thank you Mrs. Hudson," John said taking the bag from her, finding a surprising weight to the bag. "And again I am terribly sorry for all the commotion the other day and so is Rooney!"

"Oh pish-posh," she said cheerfully, "I hope you help that poor child, she was so kind, even when she wasn't, you know-" the petit woman said, widening her eyes and waving her hands around her head "—all there. I am terribly impressed with her work though John!" She said, placing a hand over her chest.

"So you checked her work?" John said happily, knowing that when he mentioned her work—and made it clear that she shan't mention it to Sherlock—that she would hungrily take his offer to see the pictures of pieces John had collected over the last couple of years.

"Yes!" She said, elongating the word excitedly. "My, my, she is quite a young lady! How long is she staying? I do love the idea of having another woman here—not that I don't enjoy our days watching soaps, John!" She quickly said, placing a hand on John's arm to not offend.

"There's no trouble Mrs. Hudson—as for her stay, I'm not too sure, there was some talk of living out of a suitcase, though I'm happy to see she did pack one, uh—" John bobbed the heavy bag up and down "—sort of."

"Oh, how exciting!" Mrs. Hudson began to say, but suddenly jumped when Sherlock had jumped up from his chair.

"Ah-ha! She's a theater actor, explaining the _freedom of expression _and all the time she seems to have to waste, lying around in your bedroom, as for your relation—" John quickly stopped him.

"Wrong again, Sherlock," John said with a wide grin. Mrs. Hudson giggled feeling very much part of this, also loving the mischief Rooney seemed to be causing.

"He's still on that then, is he?" She asked, laughing into her hand. "And what of this relation? What's he talking about John, I thought you said you two were—"

"Ah-ba-pa Mrs. Hudson, remember what I said?" John said.

"Oh, right!" Mrs. Hudson giggled to herself once again.

"So, you've gotten Mrs. Hudson into this too now, have you?" Sherlock hissed.

John raised a brow amused as both he and Mrs. Hudson watch the poor detective loose his mind over a woman he had never met. Mrs. Hudson however was more amused _because_ _it was a woman_ he was losing his mind over. She never thought she's see the day, not that she minded if it were a man he would lose his mind over. She was just excited it was for someone, though of course to the naïve, kind old woman, she assumed his excitement was because of Rooney and not simply because he didn't pin her within the first few seconds.

Then suddenly, Sherlock noticed something, something that seemed to excite him enough to shoot up from his chair. It wasn't till Sherlock snatched the bag from John's hand that he had he noticed that the shower had stopped running.

"Sherlock!" John yelled out angrily, turning around quickly. Mrs. Hudson jumped, bringing both hands to her mouth, unsure as to what was going on now.

Rooney stepped out of the shower, unaware of the commotion going on down the hall. It felt so good to finally wash away the mess from the last few days. She hated what these weeks gone did to her. At the end of it all, it never felt as satisfying as she'd hoped. All the promises of forgetting herself and her problems though always seemed to bring her back. The warmth and tingling she got that started in her legs. No, she couldn't think like that. This wasn't what he wanted. This wasn't her and this wasn't good for anyone—save of course for the people who joined in on her little escapades.

Wiping away the steam from the mirror, Rooney looked at herself for the first time in almost two weeks. She looked tired and drained. Her eyes were big and her skin was tight, like it didn't know what to do with itself. She couldn't remember if she had eaten, or if she did, if it had stayed in her system. This wasn't good for her. Her body was also full of bruises, most caused by her, the others she didn't even want to think of. The only thing that she recognized off herself was the tattoo that decorated her.

The tattoo was a long vine of thorns with delicate flowers, styled to look like a traditional Japanese painting that started at the crook of her neck and went down to her elbow. It was decorated with small, gentile purple flowers and ended with a full, white and pink one.

Rooney wrapped a towel around her thin body and picked her dress up off the floor. She looked at it, not at all amused. There were stains and rips in it, bringing her to places she needed to repress. Without a second thought, she tossed it in the trash beside the toilet.

'_Well, that fixes that_,' she said to herself, _sort of._

Then, as if on cue, Sherlock came rushing in, opening the door on the half dress stranger in his washroom. Rooney looked at him, surprised but not embarrassed.

"Well, if you wanted the washroom, you just had to say so!" She said, not knowing why John's flatmate had suddenly felt the need to open the door on her.

Sherlock looked down at her, only half taken aback by her lack of reaction to his intrusion.

"Model!" He finally shouted, noting her comfort with a stranger seeing her so exposed. There was an alternative thought, though Sherlock doubted strongly that Mrs. Hudson would be so taken by this woman if it were the case.

"No, it's Rooney," she said with a warm grin, "but I'm flattered." She extended her hand to shake his. When he did not take her hand, she took it back, unsure as to what to do now.

"I'm sorry, Mister um…"

"Holmes," he said quickly, his head twitching to the right a little, unsure where his eyes should go.

"Yes, well Mr. Holmes, was there something I could do for you?"

Sherlock was a blank. Who was this woman? Other than an irritating mystery; even the long tattoo he had been so eager to see gave away nothing at this moment. Though 74% of the time, the tattoos he came across were usually dull and redundant, revealing the tackiness and unoriginality beheld by the person in question, all that it told him was that she had taste in art. Not good taste, not bad taste, but taste none the less—then suddenly it clicked.

"Oh course!" He finally shouted. "You're an artist!" His face had gleamed and from down the hall he could hear John hiss.

"Now, as for your relationship with John."

Rooney's eyes narrowed, amused. He was an interesting character.

**Whooh! A much longer chapter this time. Next one will be a lot more Sherlock and Rooney—don't worry it is in fact coming! **

**Also, thank you for the support, I always thought it was just something you said when I saw "you guys support keeps me going" but it actually does! I felt very much inspired when I saw the reactions, so thank you very much!**

**Stefani **


	3. Chapter 3

"What are they fighting about?" Rooney asked half amused as she took her place beside Mrs. Hudson. The two men seemed to be too busy arguing to even notice that Rooney had found some leggings and a sweater in her bag and walked into the living area. Though it seemed to be a once sided affair; John yelling at Sherlock, and the dear Mr. Holmes making smart-ass remarks, it was enough to leave poor Mrs. Hudson in a fuss and Rooney properly confused.

"Oh, if I know," the fed up woman sighed, becoming sadly accustomed to the spats the two shared. "John wasn't entirely impressed by Sherlock's intrusion—and I recon you shouldn't be either!" She exclaimed, suddenly realizing whom she had been speaking to.

Rooney laughed a little, shrugging indifferent. "It could have been worst," she left it at that.

"I suppose," Mrs. Hudson said to herself, still concerned about the shouting. "Oh my!" She finally exclaimed, "Where are my manners? I'm Mrs. Hudson dearie, the boy's land lady—"she extended her hand warmly "—not the house keeper as they seem to think I am!"

Rooney smiled wide, taking the older woman's hand eagerly. "Yes I know! John had mentioned you and hopefully extended by apologies! I feel dreadful for that scene I caused the other day."

" 'Posh," she said with a smile, "I'm becoming used to far worst waking me up in the morning. A few rings at the door are nothing!" Rooney still apologised a second time, making sure to make clear at how she did not take her kindness to a horrid, drunk version of herself lightly.

"So, will you be staying long?" Mrs. Hudson asked as they both continued to listen to the two argue, over what had now seemed to be about a recent case. It wasn't clear how they had gone from arguing about Sherlock's indelicacy to Sherlock not opening the door for Watson while they were out on a case. Rooney caught a glimpse of the fight before going back to Mrs. Hudson.

"You just left me there, standing like an idiot!"

"Well, you hardly need my help for that," Sherlock said indifferently. John's eyes narrowed, while his mouth hung open.

"I'm not entirely sure," Rooney confessed, bringing her attention back to Mrs. Hudson. This was the first time John was out of reach from her. She had always ran back to him for help when she got out of hand and it unfortunately always took a good amount of time before she was ever herself again. The alcohol binges were only ever the beginning.

"You!" John suddenly shouted, pointing a finger at Rooney, "You are not going anywhere! I'll be damned if I make the mistake of leaving you alone again—" he said in the middle of his argument with Sherlock, carrying over the anger from one person to the next. Rooney's eyes shot wide and her cheeks flushed when he went back to yelling at Sherlock, acting as though he had casually mentioned the weather. Rooney knew she was a wreck and—honestly shouldn't be left alone for a while—but she did not need John conveying that to everyone in the room.

"And pray tell, how will you do that with your new job, John?" Sherlock asked, brewing trouble as though it were his middle name.

John extended a finger to Sherlock, opening his mouth as though to tell him the obvious answer to his question only to be brought back to reality. _Right _he mentally told himself, remembering the job he had secured only a day before Rooney's sudden reappearance. This was an actual job—not like when he was abroad and could come home for some time to help her out. He had responsibilities most days now, and with the way Sarah had been looking at him, there was a possibility his nights would be taken as well.

"Well, I, uhh—" John fumbled, "I—you and I shall have to talk, Rooney," he finally said, crossing his arms, then uncrossing them with a sigh.

"Oh, for god sake, you're in love with her!" Sherlock shouted out of context.

"What?" John shouted quickly. "No…no! No—no, no, no—no!" He fumbled with his words, his mind going faster than his mouth. "We're practically sibling!"

"Practically," Rooney added, nodding her head.

"Ah-ha!" Sherlock finally shouted happily, a proud grin spreading over his face "got you!"

"W-what—" John furrowed his brows. "Oh, you bastard." He said seeing the trap Sherlock had set, waiting for John to spring.

"Does this happen often?" Rooney asked Mrs. Hudson, looking at the two again.

"I'm afraid so," she said dully "and I was just about to offer you the spare bedroom down the hall," she murmured, almost to herself. Her hopes of another woman in the building shattered by the boys and they're bickering.

"Now, as for you!" Sherlock finally said, coming out of nowhere and grabbing Rooney's shoulders and holding her so she was looking up at him.

Rooney jumped a little, not expecting this stranger to continually over step his boundaries with her. His hands were warms and his eyes wild with excitement as he looked down at her. A charming grin was forming off the corner of his mouth.

"Judging by the vast difference in appearance, not to mention the lack of existence you had only three days ago, I can comfortably say that you are not at all related, even in distant. By the "_we're practically siblings" _nonsense, it leaves the conclusion that you spent a great deal of time together as children, growing the bond between the two. John clearly cares a great deal for you and, bringing the lack of my knowledge of you until recently back into light, I'd say he was in fact in love, not wanting to bring you up from embarrassment. This left him with a tie to you, eagerly wanting to help you, hoping that one day you might finally see him as _more than just a friend."_

Rooney stared at him, amazed. A wide grin covered her face that she quickly hid with her hands. "That was a very good guess, Mr. Holmes," she said sweetly, brushing her hand against his cheek. "But that's not really it either—" she peered her head past the tall man in front of her to look at her dear friend "—unless there was something you wanted to tell me, John?" She gave him a false, clueless look.

John's smile found his way back to him. "No, sorry, no offence."

"O', none taken," she shrugged before looking back up at the man in front of her—who's face had gone from gleaming to frustrated.

"I'm sorry!" She said again sweetly, bringing her hands to his arms and giving them a comforting squeeze. Despite this being only their first encounter, Rooney could to her turn deduce a small amount from him as well. Her skills were not as great as his, though it was easy to see that not many would be able to match him. He was, however though not used to being wrong. This was making him clumsy, making quick deductions, but it wasn't all in vain. He was getting closer and closer and he was persistent. "But if you were trying to impress me, it is working! I am very impressed," she reassured him."But I will take that room, Mrs. Hudson," she said, taking her hands off the tall man before he blew from anger. "If that's okay?" Her eyes shot to John.

"It would make my job a lot easier," John said only half joking, forcing a relieved smile.

"Ouh, how exciting!" Mrs. Hudson said, happily.

Sherlock however was not so excited by this news. Not because he could not bring himself to the right answers, but because she seemed to be enjoying this.

Suddenly, a chime came from John's room, causing all to look around in confusion. Rooney suddenly shouted out in realization. "That's my phone!" She shouted, then disappeared upstairs. Sherlock watched in irritation as she hopped away, before his face finally calmed. It would be okay, because Sherlock did not bore from his guesses yet.

* * *

John paced from the kitchen then back into the living room for twenty minutes, while Rooney finished the long phone call that drew her out of the room. John had to go and it was almost Noon. The office was a good ten minutes away from the flat, which didn't include the time it would take to get pass the lunch hour rush.

While John felt a little relieved by her decision to stay, one problem was replaced with another. Between Mrs. Hudson never leaving the flat and Sherlock spending most of his days brooding over _obvious_ cases, she would not be alone. But inside the flat was not the problem. The problem was that he could not trap Rooney in said flat until he got home. Eventually and probably sooner than later, she would need to leave. That was where he got nervous. He would ask Mrs. Hudson to accompany her, but he knew her and while she would say yes, her hip would say no. As bad as it sounded, he did not trust her to not get in trouble right now.

"Would you stop that incessant pacing?" Sherlock said, not taking his eyes from the microscope at the diner table.

John continued to pace, hell bound on finding an answer to his problem. There was one right in front of him, but he knew it would be a futile though; he would never do this for him. No, Sherlock would not spare a moment of his precious time, despite his constant moan of boredom. Still, it was worth a try.

"Would you watch Rooney for me?" He asked quickly, eager to get it out of the way. "I mean, if she needs to leave the flat. I'm sure Mrs. Hudson can keep her company here."" He was over-talking, something he did a lot when he was nervous. Sherlock did not miss this. John was distraught and though it did seem like a recurring thing, Sherlock could not help but notice just _how_ distraught he was, even without raising his eyes.

"Okay," Sherlock simply said, still not taking his eyes away from his work.

"Look, I'm not asking a lot—okay?" John began his defense, but was taken aback when he did not head what he assumed. "Did you say okay?"

Sherlock looked up from his microscope, annoyed. "Yes, okay."

John looked at him, a little unsure. Though, once again, he was relieved to hear this, it was not at all what he expected.

"Okay," he said for a last time. "Thank you."

"It isn't for you," he said going back to his work telling a half-truth.

John looked at his watch; time not being in his favor.

"Right now, Sherlock it could be for Mycroft for all I care, I have to go!" John began walking away, "Thank you, Sherlock!" He shouted as he hurried down the stairs.

* * *

Rooney came back down a half hour later, finally off the phone and now completely dress. In her bag, she found a pair of jeans and her big, black boots. She must have been drunk while packing, because for a reason or another, she assumed that she did not need any tops. That was easily fixed however with a white button down she found in Johns room that seemed to be a little small.

"Where's John?" Rooney asked coming down to sit across from Sherlock at the table, putting her curly hair up in a loose ponytail, rebellious strands falling out.

"He had his first shift at the clinic," Sherlock said, his eyes finally leaving the microscope. Rooney was looking up at him with kind, green eyes, waiting on him to say more. "What?" He asked when she still looked at him.

"Sorry, I was waiting for more guesses," she said with a wide grin. Sherlock looked at her with a raised brow.

"You were on the phone with your agent," he said in a matter of fact tone, crossing his arms over his chest, returning the long stairs.

"Very good-how did you know?"

Sherlock sighed happily, "From the tone you kept through out the conversation, it was clear it was with someone authoritative. From the pen marks on your hand, from where you tried to get it to work to take down information, it's clear it was important. Seeing as you have no family, there would be no one else to call you with news important enough."

Rooney smile, ignoring the comments about her family. "I'm impressed."

"Don't be," he said, hiding the glee in his voice.

"How could you hear my tone from down here?" Rooney asked, turning her head to see the distance between here and the stairs leading to John's room.

"Please, from here I can hear John's escapades with the women he brings home. A phone call in an empty house is nothing."

Rooney looked at him with a dropped jaw. Sherlock looked at her, confused until she finally began to laugh wholeheartedly. Sherlock stared at her, trying to keep a serious face for a moment before joining in on her contagious laugh. It was a wholehearted laugh, a pure, happy laugh. Sherlock found himself smiling watching her wipe tears from her eyes.

"I'm sorry, don't tell him I laughed!"

"Nothing he wouldn't be accustom to."

"Well, whether you know yet or not, I have a rescheduled interview to prepare for." She referred to the one she had missed the day of her arrival. At the end of the day, she did unfortunately have to do these things once and a while for a pay check.

"Where are you going?" He asked, dropping to his seriousness once again.

"For now, I need a new interview dress and a few other things," she explained going into the living area to find her coat.

"I'll go with you," he said following her out the kitchen.

"You will?" She asked surprised.

"I'm awfully bored," he said, telling yet another half-truth.

"But I'm shopping."

"And you're wearing my button down," he said, looking down at the long shirt on the petit frame.

Rooney smiled again, "I though it was a little small for John." She said, fixing the top on her and throwing her jacket overtop of it to mask the size of the shirt. When she was done, she extended her hand out to Sherlock, waiting for him to take it. "Well I guess we should go!"

"What do you want me to do with that?" He looked at her hand.

"You hold it," she spoke as a matter of fact.

"Why would I do that?"

Rooney laughed again, taking his hand and dragging him down the stairs. "You are a funny one, aren't you?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Just a warning, it gets a little more adult from here on out.**

**Also, if it weren't obvious, I do not own anything, only Rooney **

** Stefani**

* * *

"You look like a tramp," Sherlock said, standing completely still in front of the fitting room at the back of the brightly lit boutique. Rooney stood in a backless, chiffon dress, her nipples prompt from the cool air hitting her skin.

This was the last stop on Rooney's errand run, and a good thing too. While Rooney seemed to be thoroughly enjoying herself, the day's events were cutting off Sherlock's not-so-subtle interrogation.

The most he had gathered from her, was that her French assistant by the name of Cindy—who was sending the boxes from her studio with the rest of her possession to London—was for a certain fact in love with her, but that was obvious. Just in the way she tried so hard to make Rooney laugh and fished for complements throughout the phone conversation in the cab.

This left him with more questions than answers. Was she leading the people in her surroundings on—John included—to make her way through life? And if not, what was it about her that attracted so many to her? Why were to many helplessly drawn to the odd artist and why hadn't she accepted any of them?

Rooney looked at him, her brow high. "Well, I suppose I did tell you to be brutally honest." She went back into the fitting room. Already she had chosen two dresses. The last one was for today, as she deemed her outfit _too boring_. Honestly, it was more for the sake of Sherlock's shirt. "So what was the question again?" She called out from the room.

"What did you actually study in?" He asked again, watching the women in the store who sent judgment his way. It was not fully he who their judgment lay; but on Rooney who walked in, in combat boots, a man's shirt and old jeans that caught their attention.

Rooney peered out of the fitting room, her shoulders bare. "Now how did you know that?"

"In your work, both your sculptures and paintings, your strokes are rough, rebellious, not like an art student who got _the proper ways_ drilled into their heads. Your first piece was also not created to get fame, it _just happened._ Art Students don't accidently become a well known artist in the art community, or a social figure, so, what did you really study in?" Sherlock said as though it were the most obvious question.

Rooney stepped out once again, this time in a grey taffeta dress, with short sleeves.

"So you're familiar with my work?" Her grin was wide enough to touch from one ear to the other.

Sherlock looked at her, her green eyes staring at him attentively. She was so irritatingly obvious, yet so vague. "I have always been, I just never knew they belonged to you… You look like a middle school girl," he said bluntly looking at the dress.

Rooney rolled her eyes, irritated before returning into the room. "Typography," she shouted.

Sherlock gave a surprised grimace that hid a hint of amusement. "Typography? That's a fairly difficult career to enter."

"Yeah," Rooney said stepping out, trying to zip the back of the burgundy, bodycon dress. "I worked hard too! I did like it, but it was a little, you know…black and white." She attempted a lame joke. Sherlock stayed serious, while Rooney smiled at her own joke. "No?" She asked, turning her back to him to get some help with the zipper. He stood there for a moment, catching a view of the both of them in the mirror in front of them. If she had showed up in this dress, he would have never deduced the right thing. She was short and petit, but her body flowed with thick curves. There wasn't an inch of her that wasn't curved; from her chest to her waist; her waist to her hips; hips to her knees and knees to ankles.

"It wasn't really my type?" She tried again, bowing her head and lifting her curly hair. She watched him in the mirror as his hands went to the zipper. It was only when she lowered her eyes that he aloud himself to silently laugh at her.

One of Sherlock's warm hands found a place on the small of her back, while the other slowly pulled on the zipper. Glacially slow.

"I worked with a small company for a while; we worked on a lot of hand written styled font. Cursive, sloppy, men's, women's, you name it." She explained as Sherlock continued to pull up her body.

He tried to picture this woman sitting in an office, drawing up letters and retracing them at the computer all day. It didn't fit. But then again, at this moment, neither did the thought of her getting her hands dirty with paint and clay.

When Sherlock reached the top, he let his hands linger for a moment more, his knuckles brushing up against the bare space on the back of her neck. Rooney didn't protest. She simply stayed still for a moment before turning to face him.

"This one okay?" She asked with a sigh, waiting for another harsh truth.

But Sherlock had none. The question was redundant, almost irritating. The second skin over her own fit her perfect. His eyes ran up and down her body, both picking up anything more—and to even his own surprise, admiring.

"Fascinating," he muttered to himself.

"Fascinating?" Rooney asked, confused. "Is fascinating a good thing?"

Sherlock snapped himself away from his thoughts. "Hmm? Oh, yes, lovely."

"Good," she simply said before reaching at her back and popping the tag off the dress. She collected her clothes and bags and slipped on her boots before walking over to the cash and placing the tag over the rest of the dresses that had been set for her.

"You'll be needing a pair of shoes with that, then." The cashier said bored, looking at her with a snooty air.

Rooney looked down at the dirty boots on her feet, then back at the cashier.

"No that's fine," she smiled politely.

The cashier sighed and began ringing in her items.

"After Mickey…Died, they told me to take my time and come back when I was ready—" Sherlock noticed the pause between her brother's name and the word death. "—And after the piece sold, and for a pretty nice price too, I tried my luck at the paintings I made that had collected dust over the years and as it turns out, people just loved them. Been doing it ever since. After that though, the media started poking their nose into my business and from there I was news. It bothered me at first, but turns out you can make a living out of it," she shrugged.

"137.48₤," the cashier interrupted indifferently.

Rooney pulled out the wallet from the jeans she was no longer wearing and passed the woman two 100₤ notes as though it were nothing.

Sherlock watched her throw her long coat over her before the cashier handed her, her purchase. Rooney took the bag with an overly polite smile and thanked the woman, making sure to add a _have a marvelous day _at the end before walking out.

"Anywhere else?" She asked looking up at him. The dull London sun beamed down on her, lighting up the dark curls around her face. He couldn't remember when she had taken it out of the ponytail, but then again, he also didn't notice when John left the flat.

"No, I have no where I need to be," he said truthfully, raising his hand to call a cab.

"That's my favorite place to be!" She said openly being cheeky.

Cool wind blew rebellious strands of her hair over her cheek that Sherlock couldn't help but brush away, the way John had only days ago. Rooney's face turned to the same unbothered expression as when his knuckles brushed against the back of her neck.

"Sherlock?" She said in an almost whisper. Sherlock looked at her seriously, his face as unreadable as her eyes shot behind him. She whispered again, "our cab is here." She giggled, as he noticed himself, quickly snapping his hand away and eagerly getting in.

Sherlock's phone sprang to life as soon as the two sat, though it was hard to tell if it was pure or an attempting to hide his embarrassment. Though his face was calm, his fingers typed at an alarming rate. Rooney watched, completely taken aback by the entire concept of Sherlock Holmes. He was so serious, or at least tried to come off as so.

Despite, Rooney saw the amusement he got from his environment—saw the smile he tried to hide in the boutique. He was happier when his mind was busy, and with her it most definitely was. That said, she could admit she did not understand _why_. Rooney knew she was odd—which was in itself half of her charm—but his confusion as to her made little sense. To her, she was obvious, a stereotypical moody artist with an alcohol problem. That said, any would say that about themselves. Perhaps not the alcoholic part, but obvious.

"Mrs. Hudson?" He asked over the phone. Rooney hadn't even noticed him dialing the phone. "Rooney's shopping bags are on the doorstep, would you be a dear and bring them in—thank you," he said without waiting for Mrs. Hudson's reply.

Rooney continued to eye him, confused as 221 B came into view and Sherlock stepped out of the cab with her bags and back in without.

"So we're going somewhere else, are we?" She asked, not particularly caring.

"The Bradford Building on First," Sherlock said to the cabby. "The police need my help-again."

* * *

The cab pulled up to a tall, obnoxious, glimmering building that stood in the middle of London's finest.

"Here?" Rooney asked looking all the way up at the building. "Someone was killed here?"

Sherlock stepped out beside her, glancing unimpressed at the building. "Possibly," he passed Rooney, walking quickly towards the building.

Rooney stepped quickly behind him, catching him as he made it to the doors.

"Seems like an awfully nice place for a murder," she murmured, looking at the long white walls of the entrance.

"Possible murder," Sherlock noted heading straight for the elevator doors.

"Yes, right," she agreed, not knowing at all what he was going on about. "So which floor?" She asked as the elevator doors opened and the two stepped inside. Rooney noticed the buttons on the walk going all the way to 65.

"All the way up," he said, pressing the button to bring them up to the roof. "Not afraid of heights, are you?" He asked amused with himself.

"No, but if I get scared, I'm counting on you to hold my hand," she teased. Sherlock looked at her, confused. But that seemed to be a recurring thing lately.

"Okay, or I won't," Rooney said when Sherlock didn't respond.

"You'll do it anyway," he finally said.

"You catch on quick," she smiled.

The building-top would have been a view to marvel. From there, all of London could be seen; all it's silver wonder shining under the grey sky. Buildings went on like trees and the people were its ants. Alas, it all came apart by the crew of police officers crowding the roof. The majorities were gathered around various _possible clues_. A few looked up when Sherlock arrived, some relieved, others unimpressed. There to greet them both was Office Lestrade, his eyes unchanged from its heavy worry, just as the last time Sherlock had seen him.

"What's the situation?" Sherlock asked, his eyes quickly shooting to the officer before going to the corps.

"ID tag says Lorraine Sagmeister, Austrian woman working in relations. Single shot to the back of the head, no sign of struggle-or the killer for that matter." He laid out the details as he had so many times before with a heavy sigh, until his eyes fell upon Rooney. Even out the corner of his eyes, Sherlock could see the good Officer gawk at the young woman shamelessly.

"Who's she?" He asked Sherlock with a little smile, instead of the artist herself. Rooney opened her mouth to speak, but Sherlock beat her to it.

"Rooney, Typographer," he said bored before taking her wrist and pulling her towards the scene.

"But why is she here?" Lestrade called out as they made distance from him.

"What am I doing here?" Rooney asked, looking up at him. He could have easily left her home, where she would have been out of the way.

"I need someone who doesn't completely irritate me around while I think. Just don't yourself."

"Don't what?" She asked not understanding.

"Think- it distracts me."

"Why not just go alone, then?" She asked with a hint of mockery. When Sherlock glared down at her, she raised her hands defensively, chuckling a little. "Sorry, your methods!" She defended as they walked up to the corps.

Rooney gasped at the sight, grabbing the hand on her wrist and putting it in her own tightly. Sherlock's eyes went down to her own, that went from terrified to embarrassed.

"Sorry," she mumbled, releasing his hand.

Once he was free from Rooney's grip, Sherlock went straight to work, kneeling down to examine the back of the shot out head.

"So what's your relation with John?" He finally asked up front.

"Checking the competition?" She joked, trying to keep her voice strong as she looked down at the dead woman. If she ever thought she had a strong stomach, she was proving herself wrong now. Sherlock kept his eyes on the dead; pulling a magnifying glass from his pocket and putting it near the entry point of the wound.

"John saved my life a few years ago." She finally admitted. Sherlock raised his eyes to look at her, only to notice the color draining from her face.

"Figuratively or literally?" He asked quickly.

The blood was spread out so far from the black hair woman lying on the floor. Small, pieces of brain trailed in front... Rooney opened her mouth to speak but instead shot her hand over her mouth. She raised a single finger to Sherlock before running off to the other end of the roof. When Rooney took off, Lestrade came closer to see his progress. As he got closer, Sherlock rose to his feet and looked over the edge of the building.

"She killed herself," Sherlock said before the officer could ask.

"Killed herself? How does that make sense? There's no weapon and she was shot in the back of the head. That's some effort just to kill oneself." He said, trying to sound as thought he knew as much as the consulting detective, once again.

"Look at her," Sherlock pointed with an open hand down to the woman. "She's a good six foot three, and in heels. The killer would have had to been standing on the rail to reach her head, especially from this angle."

"What if he was just tall as well?" Lestrade challenged.

"Statistically, its not probable. Besides, look at the angle of the shot," Sherlock kneeled down, pointing two fingers to form a gun at the back of the dead woman's head. "It's pointing upwards. Why would a killer shoot someone, angling his shot like so? And don't even get me started on the distance between the body and the edge," he scoffed.

Lestrade sighed, crossing his arms and giving in without a fight. "What about it?"

Sherlock stepped closer to the three-tear gate, stopping people from falling off the edge of the building. "She fell forward, standing right at the edge. What did he do, climb the building?" He said, suddenly thinking of the other case he was working on with John in the apartment across town. How had the killer gotten in? He must have climbed the building.

"That's genius," he said to himself, rubbing his fingers along his chin.

"What?" Lestrade asked, confused.

"Nothing," Sherlock quickly said.

"So if she killed herself, where's the weapon? She couldn't exactly hide it after she shot herself. And why go through all the trouble?"

Sherlock looked over the edge again, looking at the large garbage bin against the building.

"Check that garbage bin, I'm sure you'll find the weapon. As for why, check her records, bank statements, worth. You'll most likely find debt or a relative who needs the insurance money. Really Lestrade, think." He said before walking off, his eyes searching for Rooney.

* * *

Rooney ran to the corner of the rooftop, catching herself before she threw up. She took long, deep breaths, letting her head swing over the edge. As the cool air washed over her and the sickness crumbled away, a new wave of nausea crashed over her as memories hit her hard. The blood—all the blood—it was so familiar, more familiar than anyone should know. All these dark secrets Rooney kept to herself, danced around her mind.

John was right. She shouldn't be left alone. Her breath began to come in and out of her lungs faster than it should. Her head dipped further over the ledge of the railing.

_It's all my fault, all my fault. All my fault. All my fault._

Her knuckles turned white, gripping hard against the steel ledge.

_It should have been me, he should be here, he should—_

She was not helping herself, digging herself further into her own mind. Her eyes caught the people walking down the street, unaware of the struggle going on above them. All the people—all of them, she would give anything—give any of their lives to have Mickey's again. The thought killed her. _Killed her_. What she wouldn't give to see him again, see him smile, hear him laugh. She missed him more than anything in this world. He _was_ her world. He took care of her. She was always getting in trouble, never seemed to be on the right path and still, he loved her. He made unconditional love look small compared to the love he gave her. Just when she had her life on track, got a good job, stopped dancing around the city like a child, he left her. _He left her. _Why would he leave her?

Rooney hadn't even noticed herself climb the first tear of the railing until she heard Sherlock's voice bring her back to reality.

"Rooney?" It was gentle.

Rooney turned to look at him, her eyes watering and her skin crawling with fear and ice. She looked as though she had just seen a ghost and for all he knew, she had. Her mouth hung open, trying to find something to say, trying to find a justification to her position.

Sherlock held his hand open, offering it to Rooney. "Come down," he said in a soft command. Sherlock finally saw the distraught John had. Why he wanted two eyes kept on her every second of the day. He had only left her to her thoughts for less than two minutes, and here she was, perched over the city.

Rooney looked at his hand for a long moment, deciding whether of not she wanted to take it. Finally, she took one hand off the rail, turning her body slowly to take his, forgetting the tight dress on her person. Sherlock on the other hand, did not, stepping closer, quickly as she gasped, losing her balance on the rail. Sherlock caught her in a hurry, wrapping his arms and warmth around her.

Rooney was depressed. Even with all her mysteries, Sherlock should have seen it. A person does not go on a drinking binge the way she did, without coming back worst than before. He should have seen the extreme effort she took in laughing at everything.

"John had a choice," her voice broke as she explained against the warm body holding her. "Save Mickey, or save me. Mickey shot himself." Her explanation was so vague, and hardly understandable. Still, Sherlock felt terrible for bringing her here. It wasn't as though he could have known, but still.

Sherlock hushed her soothingly.

* * *

**Whooh, that was hard to write. So, what is the truth behind Rooney and John's past?**

**Sorry for the distance between this and the last chapter. My goal is to post two chapters a week. That said, I won't update for the sake of updating. If it's crap, I'll take an extra day to make it—well not crap! **

**I'd also like to thank all you wonderful readers for your follows, favs and comments. I am so extremely touched by the**

**support! : )**

** Stefani **


	5. Chapter 5

"Are you sure you don't want to come?" John asked in the doorstep with Rooney at his side.

Rooney's disappointed eyes watched Sherlock lay on the couch in his _thinking position_. This of course just meant Sherlock had closed his eyes and laid clasped hands over his chest, but his way was law. John reassured her that this was in fact normal behaviour for him.

"A crowd full of dull minded thinkers?" he asked, not opening his eyes. "Hardly worth my time."

Rooney looked up at John, a brow arched high.

"Also normal," John reassured her again, not knowing in the short time they spent, she had come to know all too well. The difference was where John found it insulting, Rooney found it amusing.

"Suit yourself then! Shall we?" John finally said, putting his hand on the small of Rooney's back and escorting her out the door.

"We shall, Doctor," she smiled a wide grin, knowing how well John enjoyed his titled on the lips of others. As they walked down, Rooney shot her eyes behind her, watching as Sherlock stayed unmoved.

When the sound of their footsteps disappeared, Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up. Tension he had been holding was let go, leaving his body in a tight discomfort. Rooney left him irritated and uncomfortable. The fake smile she put on as soon as they got back to the flat yesterday was enough to make him drop the politeness and ask what…He couldn't even find the question. _What was she doing? _Where others were constantly an open book; a tedious read, he could not tell one moment from the other I f he understood her or not. This brought new questions, new feelings he didn't know he had. She did not only make him question _her, _but _himself._

She locked herself in her room for a whole day, but still insisted she was fine. Even Sherlock knew not to believe when a woman said she was_ fine._ It wasn't until she had pushed him off of her had he realized how long he had been holding her. The entire cab ride home, she laid her head in his laps, playing with loose strands on her jacket.

Why was he drawn to her, like a hopeless moth to a flame? Why was he letting himself risk embarrassment just to get a touch of her skin? But more importantly—at least to Sherlock's rambling mind—what decision had John took that caused her brother to shoot himself?

What more, Sherlock knew the answer was right in front of him, in more ways than one. He knew that as soon as this mystery came unravelled, he would end up feeling angrier than he initially had. He would find that the only thing stopping him from finding the answers were a pair of green eyes and a fake, soft smile. Why was he allowing such things to get in the way of his thoughts?

Suddenly, a pair of light, hurrying footsteps brought him from his thoughts as well as the sound of Rooney's voice calling _I'll just be a moment_ down the staircase.

Before him, Rooney stood once again, the long red dress covering her frame. It touched all the way to the floor, but hung just under her collarbones, showing the soft skin of her shoulders and the tattoo he had almost completely forgotten. Sherlock suddenly regretted helping her pick such a dress.

"Forget something?" Sherlock asked, resting his arms on his knees.

Rooney walked up between the gap in Sherlock's legs, kneeling down to kiss his cheek, incredibly close to his lips. Sherlock's eyes widened, but his hands took the chance to rub against her arm. A gentle knuckle ran up her arm, while his other hand floated over her elbow. She smelt sweet and brought warmth in that short moment their skin touched.

When she pulled away, she rested a palm on his knee, staying close enough to feel his breath.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Sherlock looked at her, giving up on the confusion and analyse of her words. He instead waited.

"Thank you for bringing me back—and for not telling John."

For the first time, Sherlock could not find anything to say. Not even a '_you're welcome'_ would touch his tongue, let alone his thoughts. Rooney however took this as a good sign and as quickly as she had reappeared, she was gone again.

What an irritating woman.

* * *

The TV Studio was large and never ending, giving the illusion it was a welcoming place, but stayed cold none the less. Busy workers hauled power cords and heavy lights, trying to get from point A to point B as fast as possible and if that meant running over someone in the process, so be it. This unfortunately also included the guests.

"Ah, Rooney!" A voice called out from behind the stage.

Rooney stood close to John, already hating this place. She could not remember ever liking interviews to begin with. It was always the same set of questions. What is your inspiration? What do you think of the Prince's new baby? Are you seeing anyone noteworthy? They were all just looking for a story, something to get their ratings up. Rooney brought ratings up because the people loved her. Why? She had the faintest idea, but it paid well enough to let her live an artist's life comfortably.

"Jonathon," her smile was as convincing as it was going to get. Jonathon hosted his late night show, interviewing D List celebrities like Rooney who _deserved to be noticed._ If he thought that made him a better person, Rooney wasn't going to argue; whatever helped him sleep at night. Besides, he could use all the help he could get.

The dark haired TV Host came in, hugging the little woman far longer than she would have preferred. Rooney quickly let go, stepping back to introduce John.

"Jonathon, this is Dr. John Watson. John, Jonathon." She let the two men greet one another, taking the eyes off her.

Jonathon extended his hand eagerly. "_Dr. _John," he cooed. "Good strong name, good strong profession." He said overly polite. "Don't you write that blog about that freaky-smart guy?"

John gave him a polite smile, not liking him as fast as Rooney had taken to not like him. His eyes shot down to Rooney quickly, not understanding how this man got his own TV Show with a vocabulary that included '_freaky-smart guy_.'

"So you two know each other well?" John asked, quickly passing the attention back to Rooney, not wanting to get the host interested in him.

Rooney glared at John, but politely smiled at Jonathon.

"Yes, Jonathon was at charity I was attending. He seemed very interested in my—"Rooney chose her words carefully, trying not to sound too unimpressed. "—Work," she finally decided on.

Though John was no Sherlock, it didn't take him long to notice the way Jonathon looked at Rooney, or the way she chose her words. His eyes helped himself down her body, letting imagination drop the dress.

"Yeah, but feisty momma wouldn't have it, know what I mean?" He gave John a playful punch on the arm. John went to say something, anything to get them out of there, but the eager host continued.

"Say, why'd you stand me up on that interview the other night? I was all sad and shit!"

Rooney was now at the limit of her patience, the fake in her smile reading more and more obvious.

"That was an interview you would have published in your blog—"

"Personal blog," he interrupted with a grin. Rooney gave a grimace.

"I agreed—or rather my agent agreed—that an on air interview would make up for it." She left it at that. Rooney purposely did not do many live interviews, both to leave many aspects of her a mystery—as a part of her agent's marketing scheme—as well as the fact that she would much rather get teeth pulled. Becoming a product was something she hated the most, but life could be worst.

"Well, you better give me a good show then," he gave a wink, his efforts never diminishing.

"Don't worry, I'm announcing some pretty big news."

John gave her a confused look. This _big news_ was news to him.

"Don't be telling me you're pregnant," he laughed awkwardly. When Rooney only gave an annoyed smile and shook her head, he gave up. "Yes well," he shifted from one foot to the other. "I guess I'll leave you to get ready. Nice meeting you," he had an idiotic grin on his face as he walked away.

As soon as he was out of sight, Rooney began cussing in French.

_"Mon p'tit osti de câline de tabarnack,"_ she grumbled.

"Bless you," John joked, having no idea what she just said. Rooney caught herself after a moment and laughed.

"Isn't my life terrible?" She joked, going further into the sound stage to find the dressing room.

"Yes, loyal fans pestering you and big pay checks for putting up with them, _o' woe is you_" he joked back.

Rooney smiled by herself as they continued to walk through the busy workers. John watched her, already accustom to finding the real smiles just as the fake ones.

"How are you really?" He asked her, bringing his serious tone back.

Rooney looked up at him for a moment, trying to decide what she was going to tell him. He looked down at her, so tired and worried. Telling him _I'm fine, I just almost accidentally jumped off a building and want a drink so bad I'd sleep with Jonathon for it, but I'm fine_ just didn't feel like the right words.

"You know how they say the first step to getting better is admitting your problems?"

"What, are you going to finally tell me you're an alcoholic?" He teased.

"Me? Alcoholic? Why I have no idea what you're talking about!" She teased at her turn. John gave a little chuckle, waiting to hear what she was going to admit if not that she had a drinking problem.

Rooney took a deep sigh, stopping in her tracks. John stopped too, looking down at her nervously.

"You know I love you John and I'm so thankful for everything you've done—but I keep wondering…I keep wondering how life would have been if…if," she tried to find the right words. John went to hold her, to tell her it was all right, but Rooney extended her hand, stopping him. "Please," she smiled. "Just let me finish."

John looked down at her, amazed by the woman in front of him. She had grown so much in the last few years. It brought a sense of pride and sorrow all at once. She had grown up, but at what cost?

"I'm pretty depressed, you know?" She admitted, slowly beginning to continue her search for the dressing room. "I try to tell myself I'm lucky to be here, but sometimes I wonder what it would be like if Mickey were here instead. I know it's a terrible way to live and I want to stop. It's just…hard. I never allowed myself to get over it."

This time John stopped. Rooney looked up, nervous to see his reaction. It was hard to decide on her own if she was being a brat, if she were taking life for granted. Was she just beginning to be a diva? Between grieving and ten minutes of fame, it was hard to tell. One thing was for sure; she could not do both.

To her happy surprise, John's face was a tender, warm smile. He placed his hand over Rooney's shoulder, the same way Mickey would. He had no words; no words were needed. The smile and the hand over her shoulder was enough. She was going to be just fine as long as she stayed like this. Rooney smiled, before looking down at her feet.

"I'm glad I told you," she admitted.

"I'm glad you're just depressed," he joked. "I thought you were leaving me!"

Rooney laughed, narrowing her eyes and giving him a playful nudge. "Don't think you're off the hook yet! If Jonathan doesn't bugger off, you're quickly going to become my fiancé!" She laughed.

"I don't think even that would make him go away, _momma_," he laughed.

Rooney rolled her eyes but smiled.

"How did the date with Sarah go?" Rooney asked, suddenly remembering.

This time John rolled his eyes, thinking back to the date yesterday night that involved Sherlock and a far too close call.

"I don't even want to talk about it!" He shuttered a little. Rooney laughed, mockingly.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson sat beside the fussy man, completely at awe by her tenant on the TV. "Isn't she just darling?" She said to Sherlock.

Sherlock kept his eyes on the paper in his hands convinced he would not watch. Even after Mrs. Hudson tugged on his arms, once, twice, and a last time before she gave up on trying to get him to watch.

"You don't want to watch?" She asked, both irritated and saddened.

"Not my cup of tea, Mrs. Hudson," which was true. It did not matter that it was Rooney; it was trash TV. Whenever Sherlock dropped his paper to turn the page, he would roll his eyes. She belonged there, as much as Sherlock belonged at a seminar about magical fairies.

"You don't like her, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked, only half surprised, but thoroughly disappointed. Sherlock thought about answering, but instead brought the paper back up to his face. He would not admit that-for once in his life-he did not know how to answer.

Mrs. Hudson was about to start again, when she gasped, looking at the TV. Sherlock's brows furrowed, quickly looking at the Mrs. Hudson, then over to the TV were she was looking.

"Retiring?" The airhead host said, leaning out his chair.

"For the first time- I think ever I am seeing the importance of keeping people near me. I now know what it's like to be around people that keep me on the right path. I'm happy and that's something I haven't been able to say in a long time. Sure I've still got some work to do, but I'm getting better-" Rooney let out a long sigh. "-Which is why I'm stepping back for a while. I wouldn't call it retirement, just a break." The crowd awed. As tongue tied as Sherlock seemed to find himself, she had a wonderful way with words.

"But is it smart to retire at the peak of your success?" The irritating host persisted. Rooney looked at him the same way Sherlock looked at him through the TV.

Rooney laughed, a wholehearted _real _laugh. "Well, Ill be worth double when I come back then, wont I?"

The TV host leaned into her, trying to sound hush, but was given away by the camera.

"This is the big announcement you were hiding?" He was angry. No host wanted to be the one to announce a retirement, even if it wasn't a real one. Rooney's eyes shot out past the host. Sherlock knew it was John she was looking at, especially when she smiled to herself.

Sherlock smiled wide, suddenly seeing why he continued to try to figure this woman out, because no one could—no one but him, even if it would take him a while.

* * *

It was nearly 2am when John and Rooney made it home. Though John thought it would be over and done with once the interview was over, he could never imagine the swarm of people wanting to talk to her once it was said and done. John knew she didn't want to answer mindless questions after such an announcement, but graciously did anyway. Though she didn't say it, he could tell it was primarily to irritate Jonathon.

"I'm going straight to bed," John said to her as they stood at the intersection between the hall to her room and the stairs to his. "I'm very proud of you." He said, taking her close and placing a brotherly kiss on her forehead. Rooney took it happily, feeling amazing to finally hear those words. Though John wasn't her real brother, he was doing a fine job pretending.

"Thank you," she said once he released her. "Thank you so, so much John."

"You're very welcome. Goodnight," he said, looking at her once more before going up the stairs.

Rooney walked into the living area once John was gone, not noticing Sherlock leaning on the frame between the kitchen and where she stood. She kept her back to him, walking into the room and just standing. Sherlock couldn't help but wonder what she was thinking at that moment.

When Sherlock finally spoke, Rooney jumped, not expecting him to be there.

"How does it feel to be unemployed?" Sherlock's deep voiced vibrated through the quiet room.

Rooney began to swear in French for the second time that day, bringing her a hand over to chest to make sure her heart was still beating. "You scared the life out of me!"

Sherlock gave a mischievous grin.

"You tell me," she said, laughing at herself.

"I'm not unemployed actually, I'm a consulting detective," he reminded her.

"Yes, exactly," she teased. To her surprise though, he gave another small laugh.

"Going to bed?" He asked, standing upright.

"I'll be _in_ bed, I doubt I'll _go _to bed," she said watching him step closer to her. With all her master in being able to fake smiles, she could not tell if his was genuine as he walked up to her until their bodies were side by side. His body pointed hers faced one direction, while his the other.

Rooney looked up at him immediately. He was acting strand. Was he drunk? Oh what she wouldn't give to get drunk. But that would not happen. No matter how bored or lonely she got, she would not. She needed a distraction, that was for sure and at this moment, she did not realize she was looking at it.

"Was there something I could do for you, Mr. Holmes?" She asked, never taking her eyes from him.

"No," he simply said.

Rooney flashed him a mouth full of teeth, so delightfully confused by this man.

"There's something different about you."

"Is there?" He took a page from her, acting purposely oblivious.

Rooney put both hands on her hips, leaning one forward as she watched him. "I like you," her eyes narrowed "you make no sense."

"As do you," he challenged her.

The two stayed still, looking at one and other, shooting long gazes, trying to figure the person at their side. Sherlock was intellectually stimulated. Rooney was okay with being stimulated in anyway—but at this moment it was her amusement reaping the benefits.

"Well, if that was it, I really should get to not going to bed," she began to walk away, but Sherlock quickly shot a hand around her arm, holding it firm for a moment before releasing a bit of the tension.

Rooney watched him, waiting for him to do anything.

"Goodnight, Mr. Holmes," she said when he did nothing.

Then, he kneed down a little to kiss her cheek, incredibly close to her lips. Rooney's eyes widened, but her hands took the chance to rub against his arm. A gentle knuckle ran up against his cheek, while her other hand floated in the air between them. He smelt amazing and brought warmth in that short moment their skin touched.

"Goodnight, Rooney," he whispered in her ear.

* * *

**I have to admit, I had a lot of fun writing this chapter. It came out surprisingly easy and the bits between Rooney and Sherlock will only get better ;)**

**I also have to say that my Jonathon character was so annoying I actually dreamt of him—and hated him. **

**Finally, thank you so much for all the amazing people favouring, following and commenting! If you like something—or even dislike, Id love to know! This is my absolute favourite thing to do right now and I get so excited to write it for you guys when I see the feedback! **

**You are all so amazing!**

** Stefani **


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock sighed as he lay on his back, exasperated. Sleep had never been something that eluded him, unless it was purposely done—but never had he had a restless woman walk around his house as he actually _tried_ to sleep.

For a week now she did this. She would wake with them, eat with them, smile and of course exchange long gazes at Sherlock before he and John left for another busy day. Since the rising popularity of the dear Doctor's blog, Sherlock's presence was now wanted more than ever, contrary to what it usually was. And though to everyone's happy surprise, Rooney seemed unbothered by their absence—and Mrs. Hudson overjoyed by her presence—sleep was something she seemed to do little of. Even after she and Mrs. Hudson spent days cleaning and painting, she spent her nights as restless as the day.

Turning to his side, Sherlock sighed again, staring at his bedroom door. He could hear her feet creak against the old wood floors, chairs being pulled out and couches being sat on. What she was trying to accomplish with the constant wondering, he did not know. Twice during the past week he thought of getting up to drag her back to bed, but the logical side of him knew that that would mean staying up with her. But as the week went on—and as Sherlock spent his nights awake anyway—it seemed to be less of a displeasing idea.

Still, every morning, when John asked how she slept, she'd smile wide and lie. _Like a baby!_ Sherlock scoffed. If _like a baby_ she meant waking every hour and waking everyone in the process, then she was telling the truth. She and he alike both knew however, that it was not what she meant. Why she lied to John, he did not know—and though he had begun to grow accustom to not understanding her, it still bothered him. He was determined to know every inch of her, but the more he found out, the less he knew. What an irritating woman indeed.

Finally, Sherlock had enough. Grabbing the PJ pants off the floor, he slid them on, as well as the half button shirt that matched. He was half tempted not to dress at all; surprise her properly, but decided against it. When he walked into the living room though, Sherlock found himself with a disappointing surprise. She was not on the couch, where he sometimes found her in the morning. She was not up on the table, sitting despite the empty chairs around her, drinking tea. She was neither on the floor, where she sat between he and John—nor on the staircase where she sat waiting for them to come home with a book in her lap.

Rooney's hair danced in the cool night's air—a beautiful sight despite where she sat. In the open window, Rooney hung her feet over the side of the flat. She held onto the frame, holding herself from falling. Her skin was covered in goose bumps; her body hardly covered in the button down shirt she reclaimed from him and a pair of powder blue boxers John borrowed to her till her stuff arrived. And despite how he for some reason found this to his liking, the tear running down her cheek took it away.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but instead decided to wait till after she was out of the reach of falling to say anything. Quietly he made his way across the living area, walking to the window. She was so still and for a second time he wondered what was on her mind.

When he was at her back, he kneeled down so her back was at level with his chest and wrapped an arm firmly around her waist. Rooney jumped against his arms, too preoccupied with her mind to have heard the consulting detective sneak up behind her. At first she struggled against his grip, until finally she recognized the scent of her captor. Her thoughts suddenly evaporated as she covered his arm with hers.

"I wasn't going to jump," she reassured him, leaning against his chest.

"I know," he lied—though he did not know why.

"I can't sleep at night anymore," she said, laying her head near his.

Sherlock watched her, not used to the closeness she brought. Rooney was constantly over stepping boundaries she cared not about. She was not his lover, nor anyone he knew for more than two weeks, still she touched him as though it were normal to be touched like that everyday.

"I know," he said again, this time with a hint of sarcasm.

"Shoot, don't tell me I've been keeping you up?" She suddenly said, turning her body to look at him. As suddenly as Rooney's sadness had appeared, it vanished as though it were nothing as she looked at him, wide eyed. He hated how she looked at him as though he were the only person in the world.

"All week," he brought his honesty back as he pulled her out of the window. Rooney grumbled, not wanting to move.

"No, I liked it," she whined.

Sherlock looked at her with obvious questioning, irritated by her fascination with falling off tall buildings.

"You were warm," she explained once they were both standing upright and away from the window.

Sherlock's face did not get the chance to move from its confusion, staying the same as when she said she liked it.

"I used to drink to get to bed before," she admitted when he didn't say anything.

"Nothing else got you to sleep?" He asked, stepping back from her and into the middle of the living area.

"Well, there was one thing," she winked at him with a large smile.

"Why were you crying?" He asked quickly sitting down on the couch.

Rooney gave him a forced little smile.

"Because I was sad," she joked without humour, sitting down beside him.

Though Sherlock was going mad trying to figure her out. Though John wouldn't budge on her secrets and though he had an opportunity at this very moment, Sherlock could not bring himself to ask.

"We don't need to talk about it," he said watching her curl her knees up to her chest. Rooney sat silent for a long moment, staring at nothing.

"Did...did John ever tell you about Mickey?" She gave him another forced smile.

"No, but I also didn't know about you before recently," he tried to say gently.

"Right, I suppose," she said, curling in tighter, resting her chin on her elbows.

"Rooney, it's fine—" Sherlock said, but did protest when she continued.

"John and Mickey were good friends. They met when they were in training. The first time I met John I was still young. He showed up with Mickey over Christmas, told me to whip up an extra plate cause we had another _drifter_. Mickey and I, we called each other _drifters_ cause of our parents-or lack of parents, whatever. I know John wasn't really, but I welcomed him gladly! Mickey was just always looking to help others!" Rooney smiled, looking down at her toes.

"I guess I fancied him a little. I was finally getting my life together... I had dated a few bad guys and John was nice. But that's another story," Sherlock sighed silently.

_More secrets. _

"Anyway nothing happened and John and Mickey finished their training. They stuck together for a good while and John just kept coming back with Mickey. We all became pretty close. One day though, they both came back. John told me something happened. I thought he was dead—I never would have thought that that would have been better..."

Rooney tucked a few strands of curly hair behind her ear. She was looking down, hiding the tears swelling in her eyes.

"I never really got the full story... Never wanted to know. I guess Mickey got into some pretty nasty stuff. There was an explosion and there were kids involved... It was our side's fault. Mickey just kept saying "_The screams. They screamed so loud... So loud_." I guess that's why I never asked. One night though, Mickey got pretty low. Depression must run in the family I guess." Rooney tried to joke in attempt to hide her eyes completely from Sherlock.

"I came home to find John and Mickey fighting. John had a gun pointed to Mickey and Mickey to John. I knew he wasn't himself. His eyes were so far away. Mickey grabbed me when I tried to stop them, pointed the gun to my head... He kept saying, "_We've got to go. Got to go. All going to scream—I'll save her, stop it John I'm saving her!" _I managed to push him off of me, but he shot. John being the soldier he was, shot back. "

Rooney moved away from Sherlock a little, lifting the borrowed shirt to show a scar above her hip he would have never thought of. All this time, all the tight dresses that gave Sherlock's imagination a free pass, he never noticed. It bulged a little, turning pink from the years passed.

Without thinking Sherlock's hand shot out gently. Rooney did not protest, letting his thumb go over the elevated skin.

"As soon as the shot was fired, he went to Mickey. Mickey pushed him off. He was himself again—only in time to see what he had done. He told him "_take care of her, she's a wreck." _That was the last thing I remember. That and the blood…god there was so much blood!" Rooney had now lost control over herself, tears flowing heavy and angrily.

"He left me!" She choked out between ragged sobs. "Mickey left me—he left me all alone!"

Sherlock quickly shot his arms around her, holding her to his chest as she sobbed. Her fingernails dug into his shirt, but he ignored it. He felt like an ass. All this time he wanted to know so badly what was wrong with her and now that he knew, he wished he didn't.

"He left you, but you are not alone, Rooney," he forced her to look up at him.

Rooney tugged her chin away from him at first, but he grabbed it a second time, she look straight up at him.

"You're not alone," he whispered.

"Everyone leaves me, Mr. Holmes," she said, staring straight up at him. Sherlock looked straight down at her, wanting to tell her he would not leave her—but why? Why did he want to say it? It raged in him like a wild fire. At this moment, he just wanted to say anything to get her to stop crying.

"You'll never be alone as long as you're here," he finally said. It wasn't what he wanted to say, but it more or less said the same thing.

Rooney batted her eyes up at him, loose tears falling down her cheek. Sherlock whipped them away, wishing it were strands of hair he was moving off her face.

"You're a good man, Mr. Holmes," she said. Sherlock waited for a smile. In that moment, he felt as though he could not move on in life if she did not smile.

Instead though, Sherlock got better than a smile. Rooney leaned in, this time avoiding his cheeks all together. Her lips came down on his, so warm and soft. Sherlock looked at her surprised, expecting her to move away quickly, but she didn't. He took that opportunity to close his eyes. His hand floated around for a moment, unsure where to put it before finding its place buried in her messy hair, bringing her closer to him. She pulled away for half a second, tilting her head and pressing back down on his lips. This time Sherlock eagerly kissed her back, his lips moving with hers in a way he never thought possible. This could have been his first kiss for all he cared. Even if it wasn't, it was the sweetest kiss he ever tasted.

Finally, she moved away from him, but kept her eyes locked with his. He did not know what she would say. Did not know if she would just leave or start to cry again.

"I dare say I'm tired, Mr. Holmes," she smiled. This was not at all what he was expecting.

"For the love of god, call me Sherlock," he said, still irritated.


	7. Chapter 7

Rooney slept all of four hours before she re-awoke. Her head snuggled tight against Sherlock's chest, waking exactly as she had fallen asleep. One of her arms was draped over his chest and a foot curled around his leg. He looked so peaceful now compared to when she had first slipped in beside him last night.

He had gone stiff—and not in the way she expected—when she put herself beside him in bed, taking her place as though it were always hers. His arms floated over them both while he looked at her, almost in the same manner as when she kissed him. As intelligent as Sherlock _knew_ he was, it was impossible to tell one moment from the other how she would feel. She was at her lowest low one moment and at her happiest the next.

It took him a while, but finally, he had tentatively put one arm down around her, letting her close her eyes against him. Though she had fallen asleep almost immediately, Sherlock stayed awake, staring down at her, playing with messy waves of hair that spread out over his pillows. A few times, his hands trailed down her body, letting his thumb rub over the scar on her hip before he finally fell asleep sitting upright.

When she woke though, her mind quickly tried to decide if she should be up and thinking. Sherlock had fallen asleep holding her against him, leaving her alone with herself again. She thought of last night, thought of the story she had told Sherlock. Since she first saw him, she tried to find a way to word what happened to her brother. She had a strange feeling that she would enjoy this man. Even from the first time she saw him when he walked in on her in the washroom, it was clear. He had audacity and if there was something she liked, it was that.

But kissing him was an accident—just as much as allowing herself to take comfort beside him. It was not her intention when she came down to find John to get herself involved with anyone. That said, it was hard to remember what her intentions were—but she knew this was not it. It was all playful fun—that was just the way both she and Mickey were: kind hearted and mostly carefree. She would have gotten along with him even before he showed her this strange kindness and gone on with meaningless teasing. Still, if it would continue, so would she. He did not seem like they type to get involved with many.

With a deep sigh, Rooney stretched against him, trying to move from his hold without waking him. Of course though, Sherlock being Sherlock awoke, even despite the subtle movements in the sheets. He looked at her with hooded eyes, surprise not yet setting by the woman at his side. Any regular man would be excited at the sight of this woman in their bed, but then again, he was not a regular man.

"You're like a cat," she laughed, laying her head down on the pillow beside Sherlock. Sherlock blinked a few times, not at all rested by the few hours they laid in his bed. "You're awoken by the slightest thing!"

"Cats sleep a lot more than I do," his voice was horsed.

"Well aren't we sassy this morning?"

"There was a little mouse keeping me up last night," he sunk down in his bed, finally having the freedom to lie down. He felt sore and tight from the constricted sleep.

"Good thing cats eat mice," she joked, twisting her legs from out of the covers, revealing a soft leg. Sherlock's eyes trailed up her body; skin being revealed from the angle she laid in. Her curvy leg was pointed to him, her knee rubbing up against his own. Even over the blanket, she found his foot, wrapping hers atop of his.

"Indeed," he muttered a little distracted by the new view presented to him.

Her chest came in and out of view as she breathed slowly and steady; sleep unbuttoning buttons—her hip poked from the borrowed shirt he suddenly hated. Though it covered everything, it hid nothing. Her soft tussles of hair were spread out around her, parted unevenly. She looked like an image he would have found on John's laptop; twisted and loosely dressed. Something that had never interested Sherlock before now was being presented to him in a new, not so displeasing light. He found himself grow hot. The heat went from his cheeks and lowered into his chore. A strange feeling overwhelming him as something else came into light—something hard.

Rooney's arms stretched out before she turned to lay closer to him. She looked up at him, looking as though she were waiting for something. Admittedly, it was tempting. _She _was tempting in every sense, more than nicotine.

He let a long finger trail under her chin, feeling contentment with just the touch of her skin. Rooney leaned into his hand, letting the warmth of his finger slide lightly over her neck. She smiled at the contact.

"I say, mister cat, you seem to have an appetite for something else." She rose up higher, this time letting _her_ instincts move her body. Sherlock stayed glued to her, moving in closer at his turn. Their lips touched for a light moment, until Rooney slid her hand into his lap. Sherlock snapped quickly reacting and jumping out of bed in an exaggerated, swift movement, turning his back to Rooney and going for the door. His cheeks would have been beet red if the blood were not concentrated elsewhere.

"Where are you going?" She fell into the bed at his sudden absence, raising herself on an elbow to look at him. Sherlock turned to look at her, the angle only worsening his excitement.

"It's time to get up—Get out of bed!" He quickly changed his words, opening the door and never being so happy by the cool air from the hall seeping into the bedroom.

"Oh," she laughed. "I just thought something came up," she laid back down.

Sherlock's eyes grew wide. He looked at her with both his brows raised high up on his forehead. Her face was neutral, but there was a twinkle of mockery behind her eyes. It was all far too impossible to tell if she had noticed or not.

Rooney laid back into the pillow, a proud smile creeping over her lips. Perhaps he was just a regular man at the end of it all.

* * *

Sherlock sunk into his chair. He pushed in deep, wondering just how far in he would need to go to disappear. He impatiently waited for both John and his first potential case of the day to show up. He wanted a distraction—any distraction if possible to clear his mind, or at least keep in busy. He needed a cold shower for his thoughts. Rooney still hadn't come out of his room and at this moment all he wanted her to do was stay in there.

Finally John came down, dressed and showered, a pleasant smile over his face.

"Good morning," he said oblivious to the war waging in the odd man's mind, or the recent events that took place. Sherlock gave a small groan, acknowledging John's greeting.

"Sleep well?" John asked as he made his way into the kitchen, pouring himself a fresh cup of tea. His brow rose when he noticed he still hadn't changed out of his PJs. The only effort he had made was to cover himself with his house robe.

"Not in the lease," he grumbled to himself. "Mouse kept me up."

"Mouse? We have mice?" John exclaimed, his eyes quickly shooting to the ground.

"Irritating ones," the grumpy detective grunted.

John opened his mouth to ask, but the thought arose that Sherlock may have purposely placed mice somewhere in the house for whatever reason. At this point, he had learned to simply not ask if he knew he did not want to know.

"You better get dressed," John suggested, sitting down across from him on the couch he and Rooney sat just hours before. "We've got someone coming soon."

Sherlock's eyes quickly shot to John, then to the couch. He remembered Rooney; the way she lay in his bed. He tried to bring the thoughts of her to the ones of her crying—or just not at all. No, yes, not at all was better.

"Sherlock?" John asked when he said nothing.

"Who is it?"

"Who is, who?" John asked, shaking his head slightly.

"The person, the case," he snapped irritated.

"Must have been some mice to get you this foul," John tried to sound concerned, but couldn't hide that he was a little amused by his shortness this morning. "Mrs. Josie," John took a sip of his tea.

Sherlock's eyes shot back to the couch when he heard him sip his tea, but shot them away quickly.

"Mrs. Josie?" he asked, concentrating on the wall between the kitchen and the hall. He had now brought his feet up under him—trying despite knowing he couldn't—to sink into the chair.

"Yes, she wouldn't give her last name. Just said it was important."

Sherlock scoffed, his eyes still on the wall but his mind quickly going.

"Cheating wife."

"How can you tell just by the name?"

"Married woman who doesn't want to give her last name?" He said obviously.

"Could be divorced," John sighed.

"A divorced woman who still refers to herself as Missis?" John rolled his jaw, not wanting to admit that there was sense to that—as usual.

"Where's Rooney?" He asked instead.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, keeping them on the wall. John finally looked over at the wall, trying to see what Sherlock was so interested in.

"Sleeping," he left it at that.

"Seems late for her," John muttered into his tea. Sherlock wanted to correct him, his body twitching a little, but he held himself back. "Maybe I should go wake her," he said, lifting himself from his seat, but stopped in his tracks by the strange man in the chair shouting out _No!_

John looked down at him with more irritation than confusion. He was accustomed to odd behaviour from Sherlock, but this was borderline ridiculous. "And why not?" he hissed.

To Sherlock's sudden luck, he had a good excuse.

"Because our first case is here," he said, sitting up correctly as the front door chimed.

* * *

The fake blonde sat in front of John and Sherlock, dressed in a bright blue sweat suit. She appeared to be a typical London mother, running around with little care on how she looked—but of course something was off. Still sunk in his chair, Sherlock examined her, summing her up quickly, but instead decided to get as much out of her as possible.

"Is he okay?" The woman looked at John, her blue eyes laced with a thick layer of blue eye shadow.

"Don't mind him," John grumbled, not bothering with his pouting partner.

"Oh…okay," the blonde said a little put back by him, rubbing at her arm.

"What can we do you for?" John asked with a polite smile, looking up from the notepad he had in his lap.

"I think my husband is cheating on me," she said shifting in her seat, rubbing her arm again.

Sherlock gave a low scoff, bored at how terribly obvious this all was.

"He's suddenly been in all these meetings for his company that bring him far away from home. He's gone for days at a time and whenever he comes home, he always goes straight to the shower, avoiding me with all cost!" She said with a look of concern.

"Couldn't he simply be tired after travelling?" John tried to stay polite, but Sherlock's early judgment on her left him wondering how he got to_ cheating wife_.

Sherlock on the other hand continued to reassure his conclusion. Her tied up hair had grown out, needing some dye but was none of the less well maintained. Her skin had a distinctive fake tan and her nails were in the same maintained state.

"That's what I thought at first, but he is always hiding his phone from me when we're together. He always has new odd trinkets and has began to dress different!"

Finally, Sherlock gave a loud sigh and looked at her.

"Did you want to know if you're husband is cheating _on you_ or find out if _he knows you're cheating on him?" _

"I beg your pardon?" She said very much offended.

"Your husband, you suspect he knows you're cheating on him," he repeated bored, this time stating instead of asking.

"Mr. Holmes, I assure you I have no idea what you are talking about?" She tried to keep a polite tone despite.

"You dye your hair?"

"Yes but, what does?—" The woman scratched at her arm again.

"That's a bold shade for someone your age—46?"

The woman's face turned to an angry embarrassment. She opened her mouth to speak but the detective continued.

"And your tan, a bit dark for this time of year, wouldn't you say John?" John looked at him, confused and not at all ready to side with Sherlock this early in the morning. "So the question is, what have you been doing while your husband has been away?"

The blonde looked at him, appalled.

"Don't act surprised. Did you need something for that rash? Nervous tick? —Now as for your new lover. Younger man isn't he?" Sherlock smiled. Mrs. Josie was getting more and more frustrated but Sherlock was only getting started. This was a good way to clear his mind. "Your nail polish is pink, a _hip colour_ isn't it? But he likes it, just as he likes blondes. You dyed it for your husband, but he didn't notice so you were going to go back to your natural color—a much better suit, but _he_ noticed so you continued. _How can he tell?_" He asked for both John and she. "You've got two different shades of blonde around your scalp. _Maybe it's just a trend, _possible, but not likely. You went to a different hairdresser. So that's who he is."

"Mr. Holmes if I wanted to be accused I would have stayed home!" The woman raised her voice.

"Too easy," Sherlock said to John.

The woman rose from her seat, prepared to give him a piece of her mind but was distracted. A familiar ring echoed down the hall and into the living area. The three looked at one and other, all checking their phones and coming up short. It wasn't till the sound of Rooney shouting out _Ah Crap_ and running out of Sherlock's room and into her own did it stop.

John gave a small laugh, his head tilted over in the direction of the sound—before he noticed the specific direction. Sherlock kept his lips in a tight line, acting as neutral as possible.

"Was Rooney in your bedroom?"

The blonde woman looked at Sherlock, an "ah-ha!" Spread over her expression.

"Yes," Sherlock confessed dryly. John however was not so calm.

"And why was she in your room?"

"She slept in my bed last night.

"Why?" John hissed quickly.

"Looks like you're hardly in a position to be judging _me_, Mr. Holmes," the woman said feeling better about herself.

"Why was she in your bed, Sherlock?" John said again, taking the time to agree with her. Luck must have been his lady this day though, as Rooney walked in with an excited smile.

"Fellas, my boxes have finally arrived," she said walking in, not noticing the blonde. "I'm so happy!"

"I recon you would be," the woman said, not actually knowing what it was she was speaking of.

"What? I'm sorry, who are you?" She said with a polite smile.

"Why were you sleeping with Sherlock?" John said, now directing his anger towards her. The woman nodded, now agreeing with John. Rooney raised a brow at both John and the strange woman. She hated when John did this, just as she hated when Mickey had done it.

"Cause you said you weren't in the mood," she joked but kept her face completely serious. The woman scoffed a little uncomfortable.

"You two share her?"

"Oh don't worry, he's still available!" Rooney was now picking on the woman. "It's just practice," she put a hand on the woman shoulder.

Josie quickly brushed it off, stepping away. "You're all sick! Just sick!"

"Oh speaking of sick! I have to pay the delivery men, they'll be here any moment, can one of you pay me for last night?" She looked at John and Sherlock, waiting for one of them to speak up.

"I have some money," Sherlock rose from his seat, quickly leaving the room.

"I've had enough of this, you people all are just…weird!"

Rooney gave an indifferent smile, following the woman out of the room. "Hey if you're interested, you know where to fine me!"

"_Rooney," _John hissed. Rooney turned to him now, still amused.

"She seemed nice, did you get her number?" She asked as Sherlock came back with a twenty in his hand. "Thank you, Sherlock," she said, being sure to use his first name. Sherlock looked at her for only a quick moment, passing her the note before walking past her.

"Rooney!" John said again, this time raising his voice.

"Yes, father?" She hissed at her turn.

John looked at her seriously and Rooney back at him with the same intensity. Sherlock watched them argue like actual siblings almost looking as though they were communicating telepathically.

"I'm not a child," she whispered.

Sherlock watched him mouth the words _but he is_. Rooney mouthed something back to John that he missed. Whatever she mouthed though turned John's expression into a saddened one.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," he simply said unimpressed.

"Love you John," she said sweetly. John said nothing.

"I said love you," she said again.

"You too," he sighed, defeated.

"And as for you, I'll pay you back tonight! Ill take you out to diner, both of you!" She said, looking at Sherlock, then at John.

"I have a date tonight," John said, "sorry."

"Well then apparently so do I!" She said, turning to Sherlock and pointing a finger to him. "You're mine tonight!" She grinned.

* * *

The rest of the day was both uneventful and awkward. John spent the day shooting dirty looks at Sherlock, while Rooney unpacked the four boxes that the deliveryman kindly brought up after a few bats of her lashes.

Two boxes were packed thick with clothing and shoes, all thrown in, in a dysfunctional mess. One was miscellaneous, shoes, makeup, books, and things. The last was what she was looking forward to. It held an old wooden easel covered in old paint and clay stains as well as some paint, paintbrushes and a few blank canvases that were left over. If she couldn't drink, at least she could paint. It didn't quiet relax the same way a full bottle of wine would, but it would definitely do.

Though the art supplies was the highlight, she had to admit her closet was as much of a welcome sight. She pulled out a light lavender, lace skater dress with a keyhole back and a pair of grey boots that looked to be in the same state as her black ones. She also found enough pins to get Mrs. Hudson to properly put her hair up. Not too shabby if she had to say so.

"Oh you look just lovely dear," the kind woman said admiring her work.

"Thank you so much Mrs. Hudson!" Rooney smiled, not understanding how she got such a messy bunch of curls to stay in place.

"It's really no problem! I don't get to do much of this anymore, you know, seeing as the boys are boys," she laughed.

"What, you mean Sherlock won't let you touch his hair?" She asked, following Mrs. Hudson into her cozy kitchen.

"That man won't let anyone touch him!"

"Oh?" She asked surprised, thinking of all the touching she had gotten out of him since day one.

"No, he's not really the loving type. You know I don't even think I've ever seen Sherlock with a mate! Did you want some tea dear?" She asked turning the kettle on.

"No, thank you, don't want to get full. Never? He's never had a mate?" She got back to the point, sitting at her table.

"No, Sherlock's not the kind to get close to someone I suppose. I would love to see that man in love though," she sighed. "No tea? You're sure?" Her moods were as ever changing as Rooney's.

"That would be nice, wouldn't it," she muttered.

"On the tea?"

"Oh, no" she laughed.

"And what about you deary? Do you have anyone back in Paris? A pretty girl like you with that little bit of fame, you must have men chasing you like dogs. And some of them are dogs aren't they?" She laughed feeling wicket.

"No, I mean there have been a few here and there, but nothing…I don't know good, I guess," Rooney looked out the window.

"But you're all dressed up now! I don't know any man who would be able to resist you looking like that!

Suddenly a light knock came at the door.

"I hope you're right," she laughed, watching Mrs. Hudson open her door.

"Oh, Sherlock!" She said thoroughly surprised.

Rooney watched him from where she sat, that twinkle of mockery from this morning teasing him.

"I hope you're right," she said again, to herself.

* * *

**Now this was indeed fun to wright! Not much to say, expect I love all you guys to the moon and back! I'd kiss you all, but I feel like I may just awkward you out.. Soooooooo how about a cyber hug? :D**

** -Stefani **


	8. Chapter 8

If for a certain fact that there were trillions of stars in the sky—if the planet truly did revolve around the sun—if all these were solid facts, then the next would be that Sherlock was falling for this irritating woman.

But if there were trillions of starts and in the middle of it all was the sun that watched over them all, then that meant the he would never know if no one told him, as he did not know the planets revolved around the sun.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Rooney asked putting her fork down.

"I'm making sure I'm still working," he said simply, his eyes shooting around the room, analysing the posh around him, and then setting his eyes back down on her. Every time he looked at her, he found himself a blank.

Under his breath he whispered carriers of the people around him, going around in order. "_Doctor…Lawyer…"_

Rooney sat a little embarrassed as he continued to look around the room. _La Cuisine _was a beautiful restaurant, decorated in fine china and lace. The tabletops were all raised and decorated in dark wood. Little lights hung like stars against the tall celling lighting the room, bringing in a warm ambiance. At the front of the restaurant a calm woman played piano; it was all a lovely reminder of London and its beauty

"You seem to be working fine this morning," she teased, referring to his embarrassing little incident.

"_Hmm janitor—interesting, banker," _he continued between bites off his meal. "_Lovers, ouh lovely an affaire…_"

"Oh my, I've broken him," the fuzzy haired woman laughed. "Well go ahead then, _do me_." She said fully aware of her choice in words. Sherlock sent her an unamused look. She watched him for a moment, trying to keep her serious, waiting to see if he would say anything. When he did not give into her jokes, she laughed and restated.

"Okay, in all seriousness, try again. We'll play until you get something wrong. If you're going to continue to act like a C_razy Uncle Tom_, talking to himself in public, then get it over with!" She teased, but he was still not impressed.

"What do I win if I don't get any wrong?"

"Oh feisty," she winked at him. "We shall see, but if we're playing, there should be rules.

"Naturally," he stated, watching her bite into her wavy lips, taunting his unintentionally.

"You have to pretend we've never met then," she said pushing her half eaten plate away from her.

_Oh she was clever._

"Then you have to answer all my questions truthfully."

"Three questions," she challenged.

Sherlock gave an amused grin, leaning back into his chair and clasping his hands. As he watched her for a short moment, his hands rhythmically bounced over his bottom lip, bringing him deep in thought. He tried to keep his mind on track, as he looked her up and down, remembering skin that was now covered.

"You're hair was done by someone else," he began. "It's held up in a way only an extra pair of hands could do. But it wasn't done professionally. It's an out-dated style, one say a woman in her sixties would have worn at your age. So you live with or near an older woman, probably in a flat." He smiled, knowing precisely how Mrs. Hudson looked at Rooney's age.

Rooney watched him, wondering if he really could use those things as true guesses, or if he was simply pulling his actual knowledge of her into light.

"Couldn't it be my mother?" she tucked strands that weren't there behind her ear, so used to it being down it became a habit.

"Possible, but a mother would have made a comment on the skin showing on your back—or at least comment on the state of your boots. You left the house, completely dressing yourself."

Rooney tried to hide how impressed she was by that logic, nodding a little with a grin.

"Also, your dress is expensive. A person living with their parents usually have a reason, and whether it is financial or health, you wouldn't allow yourself such a dress. That may be dipping in on what I know of you though," he admitted

"Go on," she loved this.

Sherlock looked at her again, looking at the way the dress fit her, her chest, and her hips. He peeled his eyes away, bringing them on the tattoo on her arm.

"So you have enough money to take care of yourself and a little more. You even treat your dinner guest to nice restaurants," he raised his glass to her, unclasping his hands and taking a drink. "You don't flaunt it though." He said, putting his glass down.

"There isn't an ounce of jewellery on you; nothing on you that screams out _look at me, I have the means. _Then there's the tattoo."

"What about my tattoo," she looked at it, rubbing her hand up and down the inked arm.

"Its one of your paintings," he said, proudly, now pinning her job.

"Is that considered cheating?" She asked with a mischievous grin.

Sherlock looked at her, feeling as though he had been defeated once again before his mind landed on the right answer.

"Give yourself more credit, dear artist. It isn't hard to find someone who has a name worth searching for."

"Good answer," she muttered.

"So, I've gotten your career, what kind of house you live in and by simply asking where you grew up I'd have enough to deduce that you we're raised by a sibling. So, what next?" He asked as though he had already won.

"Am I married? Do I have a lover back in Paris? For all you know I could be gay? What if I lied to you about my assistant Cindy? What is she _was in fact_ my lover?" She brought him into her territory.

"There's no tan line, no red mark where a ring should be. Had I mentioned you wore no jewelry?" He grinned.

"Smart ass," she muttered as the waiter she had completely forgotten about came around to see how they were making out.

"We doing okay?" He asked more to Rooney than Sherlock.

"Fine thank you," Sherlock replied for her. The waiter looked at him, shooting him a dirty look he looked back at Rooney and smiled, walking away.

"You left Paris and moved here at the drop of a hat. Either you're dating someone very dull or you're single." Sherlock continued.

"Women in relationship don't generally try to kiss other men while in bed with them either," she kindly reminded him, uncrossing her legs before crossing them again, making sure to run her leg up his as she did so.

"Not likely, but not impossible; you're no stranger to a rush. You didn't flinch when a stranger walked in on you in the washroom then brought the same stranger to help you try on clothing."

"So, that leaves us with just one thing left. I'm impressed; you didn't even ask one question." Sherlock looked at her, not catching what she meant at first but as she leaned if closer and looked at him, it was as clear as daylight.

"You're not gay," the corner of his mouth twitched.

"Go on," she smiled, waiting for this. Was this her intention all along? "Was I just looking for a rush, or…" she let herself trail off.

"No. Not unless you have a collection of nervous ticks that are also tell-tales for attraction," he watched her carefully.

"What ever do you mean by that?" she let her nails trail up his hand as she spoke.

"Biting your lips, playing with your hair, making accidental contact when you crossed your legs," his eyes watched her hand as it trailed up as far as she could reach before going back down with her nails.

"What if I'm just a flirt?"

"You are a flirt," he stated, "but you are not simply flirting, are you?"

"Is that one of your questions?" She asked, taking her hand back and resting back into her seat as the young waiter came back.

"Were you all done?" He asked with a polite smile, looking at Rooney and completely ignoring Sherlock.

"Yes, it was delicious," she smiled back at him, seeing Sherlock's discontent from the corner of her eye.

"Were we interested in any desert?" He asked, taking the plates off the table, shooting a look at Sherlock before quickly going back to Rooney.

"Just the bill, please," she smiled back.

"Alright, I'll be back," the waiter gave her a quick wink.

Rooney watched him walk away; rolling her eyes a little before looking back at Sherlock.

"I already know the answer," he said, bringing them back to their conversation for a second time now.

"Then ask your two last questions," she took a drink of her water, smiling in it.

"What did you mouth to John this morning?"

Rooney's eyes read her confusion clearly. She paused, looking as though she were trying to decide if she wanted to answer or not. John looked at her, his eyes so serious, telling her silently that Sherlock was a child. He seemed to be so disappointed when she replied.

"_Please," _she said seriously. " I said _please_."

It was now Sherlock's turn to act surprised. Why she looked to John to let her continue her little dance with him, he did not know. Even when he knew everything about her now; knew everything he needed to know to understand her; he still knew nothing at the end. She was still a complete mystery to him, even though her pages were free to read.

The waiter returned for the last time, placing the bill on the table quickly before walking away. Rooney picked it up, laughing with a scoff when she saw his number with the words "_Call me, Brad X" _written in red. Rooney shook her head, taking her wallet out and placing a few notes on the table before getting up.

"He's audacious," Sherlock muttered, looking at the bill, reading the message upside down.

"Not the words I would have used," she laughed, beginning to walk away when she saw Brad coming back in their direction. Sherlock noticed him as well, catching Rooney by the wrist when she began walking away from the tenacious waiter.

Rooney looked at him confused before he brought her to him by her hips, bringing his lips down on hers roughly. Rooney's eyes shot wide, not expecting his sudden affection. It was her turn now to need a moment to find herself, letting her hands float for an instant before she snaked them in his hair, gripping him closer to help close their big height difference. He brought her in tighter, keeping her on the tips of her toes as he moved his lips hungrily against hers.

Sherlock kept her against him for a long moment, completely aware that the annoying waiter was watching them. What he did not know was that he was standing there for a long moment, waiting for them to stop. When he did not let her go, the waiter cleared his throat, trying to get their attention. Rooney let go of him quickly, dropping herself back down to her real height to look at him.

"Did I forget something?" She asked, breathless.

"No, its there was a message for you," Brad said a little flushed.

"Me?" She asked, extending her hand to take the page in his hand.

"No, _him,_"he handed Sherlock the piece of paper. Sherlock smiled at the way he spat out _him_. His smile however was short lived as he read the piece of paper.

"What is it?" Rooney asked, noticing his face drop.

"Mycroft," he grumbled, crumpling the piece of paper and walking out of the restaurant.

"Wait, what?" Rooney asked, watching his bolt down the street with speed her little legs couldn't keep. "Who's Mycroft?" She shot her arms out, yelling when he didn't stop.

Sherlock stopped only long enough for her to catch up.

"He's my brother."

"How did your brother know you were here?" Rooney tried to keep up and button her jacket all at once. The cool London air hit her all at once. If she didn't know any better, Rooney could have sworn that he was the one with the mood swing problem.

"Arch enemies always know where their target it." He said irritated, causing Rooney to stop in her tracks, trying to wrap her mind around that.

"I don't get it, is he your brother, or your arch enemy?" Rooney tried to keep up with him as he continued to walk.

"Isn't it the same thing?" Sherlock joked without humour, turning into an ally to find London's darkest corners.

"No, not really—Sherlock, where are we going?" Rooney began to get frustrated as she tried to match his speed.

"Mycroft has a flair for the dramatic," he left it at that.

"But couldn't we take a cab?" She asked, huffing behind him.

"Didn't you hear me? He's dramatic."

"And you're sassy," she grumbled under her breath.

* * *

It took them at least ten minutes before they finally arrived at an abandoned paper mill, standing menacingly against the dark sky. Windows had been broken and boarded up and broken all over again. The only light that guided them was an old buzzing light at the far side of the mill's lot.

"Sherlock?" Rooney called out for the millionth time, her irritation had crumbled into fear, as they got closer to the building. Sherlock finally came to a full halt, turning to let her walk to his side.

"Anyone ever mention you were annoying sometimes?" She whispered into the eerie silence.

"Its been mentioned," his own irritation had also diminished. He took her hand, feeling a little guilty for running off, but not enough to apologies.

"So you want to recap for me?" She asked, squeezing his hand a little harder than needed. Sherlock took his hand back quickly, not expecting her to have the strength to crush his hand. "That's for running away from me," she hissed.

"Mycroft is constantly trying to get me to do cases I have no interest in," Sherlock grumbled, making his way through rubble of the old building. "Waste of my time."

"Well, if he's always doing this, why do you keep meeting him? And in god awful places like this?"

"Because I know how to threaten him," a voice suddenly called out. Rooney jumped a mile high while Sherlock simply turned, unimpressed by his theatrical appearances.

"Hello, Mycroft," Sherlock sighed.

Rooney stood between then, eyeing them both with confusion. Mycroft looked like a well put together man working; his suit and jacket tailored for his perfectly. His short hair was all in perfect place as he stood with perfect posture with his arms crossed behind him. Sherlock had never looked like a rebellious man, until now.

"Hello, Sherlock," Mycroft had with a distinctive glee hidden behind his smirk. "And just so you know dear brother, it is not _for you_ that you were called here." He said, looking at his little brother then to Rooney.

Rooney looked at both the smirking man as well as the confused one, going back and forth for a moment before finally deciding that he was without a doubt talking about her.

"Me? Why me?" She asked confused. "Do I know you?"

"Yes, why her?" Sherlock agreed.

"No," Mycroft said simply, "but I do know of you, Miss King."

Rooney shifted uncomfortably at the use of her last name. After Mickey died, she stopped using it all together as much as she could. Everyone knew her as simply Rooney; even most of the journalist.

"You've done your homework," Rooney gave one of her rare grimaces, dropping the polite smile. Sherlock watched her nervously, not wanting her to fall into her lower self.

"I'm failing to see a point," Sherlock spat, more short tempered than usual with his brother.

"That is the point, Sherlock. I have found Miss King after her sudden retirement the night she stepped back. And wouldn't you know, she's been living at 221 B." He spoke to Sherlock as though it were the most obvious thing.

"_She_'s right here," Rooney said to Mycroft a little irritated. "And I don't see a point either Mister Holmes." Sherlock's eyes shot to Rooney, a habit that had grown too quickly at her calling _him _Mr. Holmes instead of Mycroft.

"Sherlock has enemies Miss King—real enemies," his eyes shot to Sherlock, knowing how he spoke of him when his back was turned. "And you have Journalist searching for you."

"I do?" She asked, wholeheartedly surprised. Mycroft looked at Sherlock.

"She's modest," Sherlock simply said, wanting to agree with Mycroft, but not—for the sole fact that it was Mycroft.

"Well I'm glad you two know what you're talking about, because I'm still more than a little confused."

"It was quite a kiss you two shared at _La Cuisine_," Mycroft made his point.

"Wait you were watching us? Wait—what else have you been watching?" Rooney had a chill run through her and not from the cold.

"I see everything Miss King," Mycroft explained.

Rooney wanted to say so much to that statement. A few cusses came to mind as well. Despite the long list of things Rooney wanted to say, her professional side came out. "Is it a problem, Mr. Holmes?" Sherlock looked at her again. It was decided then and there that he would never let these two have a conversation while he was there again.

"Simply watch the company you keep; both of you."

* * *

Mycroft had a car waiting for them by the time they exited the abandoned building—and a good thing too. Rooney was angry; more than angry, furious. Her body shook as they sat in the car. Sherlock at least was intelligent enough to know not to bother her. Don't look at her, don't speak to her and above all don't touch her. Sherlock had hundreds of ways to get under people's skin—but knew only one way to not exacerbate a situation. But still, the car ride was long. He thought she would not say anything until they reached the flat, but finally spoke after a long eight minutes of silence.

"I don't like being told what to do," she gave a mechanic roll of her shoulders, tilting her neck to one side as she spoke. Sherlock watched her, knowing exactly why but let her speak.

"Mickey was the last person to tell me what to do—and I won't be threaten either. I can't stand it."

"I understand," Sherlock said, feeling a slight disappointment creep into him. Without saying it, to Sherlock, Rooney was telling him it ended there. There would be no more of these foolish glances, no more hard kisses. It was over now—and at the end of it all—it was probably better that way, at least for Sherlock. He did not keep people near him; it only caused problems. He never had a mate because there was no need; no time. Sherlock did not love and that was that.

Rooney stepped out of the car without another word said as they pulled up. She hurried ahead of him, opening the front door and leaving it open for him. The detective followed behind her, making sure to keep his distance. When they both reached the top of the stairs, Rooney looked up at him for a moment before sighing and muttering, "_I'm going to bed,"_ as she walked down the hall

Sherlock watched her walk away from him—only to be confused when she entered his room instead of her own. Sherlock went back to following her, stepping into his room to see her sitting on his bed and untying her boots. When she was done, she looked up at him, confused at why he was looking at her confused.

"Yes?" She asked when he did not move from watching her. Sherlock pursed his lips and furrowed his brows. Rooney finally smiled at him, getting up from the bed and walking up to him.

"I said I didn't like being told what to do, Mr. Holmes," she said stepping close before grabbing the collar of his shirt and shoving him down to her height. Her lips crashed into his, the same way he had done to her. Sherlock grabbed her by her shoulders, pushing her away quickly.

"Don't call me Mr. Holmes anymore." Rooney laughed, grabbing him once again for a quick kiss. She stood on the tips of her toes again, trying to muster more false height. Finally she let go, turning her back to him.

"Will you undo my dress?" Rooney looked up at Sherlock, taking in the height distance between them. He stood at least a whole foot above her—no wonder she had such a hard time reaching him.

Sherlock looked down at her, not at all thinking about the height difference. His mind was set on Rooney's words, the question that wasn't at all a question but an invitation. The real question was; would he accept? Mycroft's words now probing at him as he looked at her skin—it beckoned him, teased him and called out from under the lace.

But still, he wanted to walk away. He wanted to rid himself of this nagging temptation, and not he had a good enough reason. And all he had to do was walk away. It was that simple—yet in this moment, the most impossible task in the world.

His eyes shot to his own door and back at Rooney. Decisions.


	9. Chapter 9

**Warning, this contains adult content. It is 100% smut, so you can skip to the next chapter if it doesn't interest you. **

* * *

Sherlock slipped his hand into the back of Rooney's dress, giving warmth to the crook of her neck, a place where he knew something other than his hands belonged. Rooney signed, happily. A shiver ran through her body as he finally let himself touch her.

She was completely aware of what she was offering him and though part of her feared she was leaping into something she knew not if she could escape—though she wanted to run away as much as he did—there was something holding her there with her back to him. Perhaps it was the rush he spoke of; perhaps it was the promise that he could tell her things she did not know about her own self. Her greatest guess though, was how aroused she was at the idea of Sherlock losing his grip on his control.

She watched him for a long moment, his hands buried in his pockets, watching the door—watching her. He was deciding and it was taking the world of him. She knew this and knew she was not there to force his hand. She let her hair fall from the pins, letting curls fall over her shoulders. Even if she was not there to force his hand, she could guide him, possibly. When Sherlock slipped his hand into her dress, she knew the decision was made.

His fingers tugged on the clasp holding the top of her keyhole-back dress. He smiled, as he had grown accustom to helping her _into_ her dresses. Once the lace was freed from around her neck, he went down to the zipper at the small of her back. Rooney watched him behind her, meeting his eyes. She smiled _that_ smile—the mocking smile that was still so kind.

"Well, get on with it," she teased. Sherlock's eyes narrowed, but still a smile crept onto his lips. Gently, he pulled the zipper down, leaving her back completely bare. It was a ridiculous thought; but even her back seemed flawless. Even with the scars running around her hip.

Both hands under the material of her dress, Sherlock slipped it off her arms, at that moment cursing whoever made this dress. Rooney flexed her shoulders, helping him slide the dress off her. With little effort, the wad of lace fell to the floor. A peaceful tension settled in Sherlock's stomach. He felt excited and aroused—lost and confused. There was a new sense of need for attention, as well as a bruising in his ego over admitting he was entering territory he knew nothing about.

Still, he found himself being led by his body. Despite all the skin in front of him, Sherlock knew exactly where he wanted to be. Stepping closer than he thought he could ever be, he placed long, loving kisses along her neck. Rooney took a long breath, reaching back and knotting her fingers in his hair, then down to his neck, holding him.

A delightful shiver ran down her as he kissed her, finding waves of pleasure hidden in her skin. She let out a little moan of contentment, cause Sherlock to stop. Rooney quickly looked back at him, reading the unsure look on his face. She smiled at him, turning to look up at him.

"Still in there?" She asked, bringing herself against him. His eyes wandered over her exposed chest as she did, causing his mind to dull. A blush brushed over his cheeks when erect nipples came up against his chest. His heart was beating faster than ever, rushing all the blood away from head.

"Yes," he answered without thinking.

Rooney smiled and placed herself of the tips of her toes, giving herself the extra height she knew she needed again before letting her lips crash back into his. He quickly wrapped himself around her, touching every inch of skin he could reach. He knew not what his was doing, but luckily human nature seemed to. Still, thought waves of lush hit him hard, it was the sense of control leaving him that aroused him even more. For the first time, he did not know what was happening, or what would happen next. For once, his mind was like everyone else's. The only difference was he hopped that everyone else did not have Rooney's nakedness in their minds the way he did so clearly.

Sherlock kissed her mindlessly, brushing his tongue over her lips then inside her mouth, tasting something he knew he'd crave from now on. Rooney moaned into the kiss, bringing her hands now from his neck to his hair to get a better angle. She wanted more—as much as she could get. She moaned again, this time louder when she felt something hard brush up against her. Unfortunately, just as this morning, he drew away when his excitement became painfully known.

"Sorry," Sherlock said out of breath, moving away from her. It took her a moment to bring her mind back, watching him try to hide his arousal with his arm.

"I'd be insulted if you didn't have an erection, Sherlock," she laughed a little harder than she should have.

"This is painful," he grumbled, not appreciating her laughter. Rooney dropped her smile, taking his frustration seriously now.

"Already?" She asked, trying to hide the flattery as she stepped closer to him. Sherlock took a step back, not picking up on the tone she had.

"Not that," he spat a little harder than intended. Rooney gave him sympathetic eyes, telling him without words that she was taking him seriously again. Sherlock gave a sigh, his hands furrowed in his pockets once more. Sherlock's blue eyes crashed down on her like oceans all gathered in two orbs just to watch her. Her stomach turned, flipping over how she was being watched. No man had ever watched her like he was watching her now. It sent an unsure feeling in her, causing her to cover her chest, wrapping her arms around herself.

"Smartest man in the United Kingdom and I have the faintest idea what I'm doing," he said to himself. Rooney watched him, as he looked away from her, his eyes nowhere in particular.

"You are going to kiss me," she said stepping closer to him, her hand reaching out to him, holding it as she leaned up and kissed him quickly. "Then you're going to follow me," she began tugging on the hand she held, leading him to the bed. She sat on the very edge, placing him between her legs while he stood, listening to her like she was the only voice he'd ever hear.

"And?" He asked, his instincts returning to him. He glided both of his hands down the two legs at either side of him. Rooney watched him, holding her words as she watched hands move up her leg to hold her hips in his hands. She wrapped one of her legs around his body, brining him closer while her hands grabbed his jacket firmly. Sherlock happily complied, letting her bring his body over top of hers. Their lips locked once more as Sherlock hungrily climbed overtop of her. Rooney moved backwards, making enough space for him to climb overtop. Their lips locked eagerly; Sherlock dipped his tongue into her mouth first, tasting her again.

While Sherlock kept her mouth busy, she pushed his jacket off clumsily. Sherlock let all his weight sit on his knees as he helped her take his jacket off, their lips never leaving one and other. As soon as his jacket was off, she spared no time going for the buttons at his shirt, her fingers missing most of them; her mind too busy on the Sherlock's lips. When Sherlock was only left in his pants, he said again, "_And_?" taking his lips away from hers.

Rooney growled at him "_shut up_," she hissed before taking him back to her. Her nails trailed up and down his skin, grazing his back, his chest, anything she could reach. She just wanted contact with his skin. A shiver ran through him behind the little red marks she made over his skin. Rooney grabbed hold of him tight, bringing all her force to flip him over so she was now on top of him. Her legs straddled his hips, keeping her sturdily above of him.

Rooney leaned in to kiss him again, but quickly jumped back when she felt a firm hand press between her legs. She let out a long confused moan, looking down at Sherlock's hand hold her. His thumb pressed itself hard against her, rubbing against her rhythmically.

"Oh, Sh—" was all she could manage, shock going hand in hand with the pleasure running up and down her spin to stop at her chore. Her eyes glossed over, watching Sherlock's expression stay serious as he watched her and his hand; how she moved against it. He watched her squirm above him, pleasure jolting through her when he pushed back the thin layer shielding his hands from her sex. He pressed his thumb inside her, causing her to buckle down against him, losing her balance from his touch.

"God," she groaned, not at all expecting him to touch her like this, nor that he would be so talented in something he knew rarely—if ever did.

Sherlock watched her, his own eyes closing a little as he watched with pleasure at her own. Along with the pleasure, pride also ran through him, watching her move and breath heavily because of him. He watched amazed as she arched her back when his thumb pressed inside her a little harder, letting another moan escape her lips.

"Sherlock," she moaned impatiently after a long moment, sitting upright with him still holding her at her center. Sherlock's heart raced a little faster, anticipating the next movements. He let her go, a shiver running through her at the lost of contact. Her eyes were still hooded though, as she began undoing the button that held the wretched material over him. Sherlock helped her lose the last pieced of clothing on him, revealing his aching erection that had stayed hidden for far to long. Rooney admired it with a loving stroke, watching Sherlock buck a little at her touch. He was as big as she expected for a man his height, his penis standing upright and tall just as he did. His groan was as deep as his voice, vibrating through his chest and into her ear.

"_Now_," he groaned, impatience now washing over him. Rooney gave a wide smile, slipping the underwear off her, her eyes never leaving Sherlock's as she did. She happily obliged him, placing herself overtop of him again, nothing keeping their skin from touching.

"I don't suppose you have any condoms?" She asked, but placed herself at the head of his erection, already knowing the answer. Sherlock gave a soft groan; feeling her warm, wet entrance brush up against him.

"No," he barely said, putting his hands on her hips. He moved his left hand a little when his thumb brushed up against the scar on her hip. Rooney took his hand, guiding it back over the scar. He looked up at her unsure, but she stopped him, pushing herself down on him. Both Rooney and Sherlock gave a loud moan. Sherlock let out a second groan, euphoria running through his body at the tight warmth between his legs. Rooney let out a heavy breath letting her head dip over his chest, adjusting herself to the sizable man inside her.

"Are you okay?" He asked concern when she kept her head dipped, hiding her face from his with her long, messy locks.

"Goodness, yes," she moaned, lifting her head and kissing him quickly before bucking her hips against him. Sherlock groaned against her kiss, moving his hands from her hips and wrapping them around her. Sherlock moved at his turn, his thrusts slow at first as she adjusted to him. When he began moving in her with ease, Rooney sat up on him, letting him take all the control.

"Sherlock," she moaned out, her eyes full of lust and warmth. Sherlock kept a steady pace, moving inside her, watching her breast jump as he did. She saw him eyeing her, leaning in to let him take one in his mouth. Rooney gave a satisfied moan, allowing herself to let her hips to take over while he stayed busy.

Rooney slammed down on him, keeping him in place for a moment. Sherlock released her breast, growling when she did.

She gave him a mischievous smile, peering down at him through her hair. Slowly she rose, almost all the way out and came back down quickly on him. Sherlock grabbed her hips, as she did this again, then again. Finally, he got frustrated, wanting nothing more than to move inside of her. He growled once more.

"Sorry, what was that?" She slid up once more.

"_Irritating woman_," was all he managed, watching the playful woman teased him. Rooney leaned down against him, kissing his ear before she whispered into it, turning a new wave of need in him.

"_Do something about it,"_ her voice was so soft yet still enough to drive him to move. Without warning, he placed a hand at the small of her back, making sure to keep her in place as he flipped them over with ease. Rooney gave a small gasp as she landed on her back, the newly confident man thrusting in and out of her wet entrance with a needing intensity. His groans were locked with Rooney's moans, their kissing moving as fast as Sherlock's hips.

"God, you're beautiful," he spoke without thinking, watching her nails dig into the sheets around them as he moved quickly. Their breaths were shallow and short, a thin layer of sweat beginning to cover them both.

"Sherlock, I'm going to—" She suddenly said wrapping her leg around his back. Sherlock's face twisted with overwhelming sensation and concentration as Rooney curled her toes in the sheets, feeling her release coming. Sherlock wasn't far but didn't want to take his orgasm before she did. He gripped the headboard pounding into her, his other hand moving against her sensitive bundle of nerves, helping her reach her peak. Rooney let out a sharp moan, feeling herself near.

_"Oh, Sherlock," _she breathed, feeling the sudden shiver run through her as she came around him. She wrapped her other leg around him, squeezing herself around him, enjoying bliss. Sherlock's lips turned into a content smile as he breathed hard, watching her look so happy beneath him, her mind pleasantly clouded as she came.

"You're turn," she said through a heavy breath, moving him out of her to turn over. She held the headboard, raising her curved bottom to him. Sherlock placed a hand on her hip, holding himself to enter the warmth he already missed.

As he slid in, Rooney looked behind him. Just the sight of her bent over, leaning onto his headboard was enough to make him come.

"Just don't come inside of me," she warned, breathless as he slid inside her again. Rooney leaned into the headboard, feeling the fullness of his size once more. Sherlock smiled, leaning in and kissing her shoulder as he leaned against the wall for balance.

"I won't," he promisedas he moved in her again. Rooney intertwined her legs with his as he moved, one of his hands fondling her breast, sending more pleasure her way. He pounded her with just as much intensity, enjoying every single second of this new pleasure.

Rooney gripped the headboard tightly, amazing by how quickly she found yet another orgasm run down her spine. This one wasn't as big as the first, but tingled down her none the less. Sherlock suddenly gasped and groaned at once, feeling her tighten around him.

"_Rooney_," he whispered in her ear. Rooney just moaned, words escaping her when she tried to tell him to come as well. Suddenly, Sherlock pulled out, jolting behind her as he released himself on her back. Rooney collapsed under him, indifferent, but Sherlock quickly jumped out, picking up a towel he had in his room.

"Sorry," he breathed quickly. Rooney looked up at him, her face buried in his pillow. She lazily looked behind her, muttering into his pillow. "Oh its fine! Better there than inside," she laughed.

Sherlock whipped himself off of her before lying down beside her. Rooney was exhausted, only moving her head on his chest.

"That couldn't have been your first time," she mumbled, snuggling against his sweaty skin, but in too much of a state to care. Sherlock smiled a little embarrassed. He said nothing, simply brushing wet, curling strands from her face.

"I see what all the fuss is about now," he admitted. Rooney looked up at him, giving a small smile, her tiredness suddenly leaving her.

"More?" She asked with a raise brow.

"More," he groaned.

* * *

**Thank you for all the support, I hope you guys liked this ;)**

**I havent written anything like this in a very long time, so I wasnt sure how it would turn out! Please let me know what you guys think! Seeing reviews gives me that extra inspiration when I'm blocked :) **


	10. Chapter 10

John hadn't noticed he had been gripping the arm of the chair until he heard the door to Sherlock's room open. It took him a moment to compose himself; move his fingers from the stiff clutch he kept. His knuckles had gone white but his mind was coloured with busy thoughts.

When he came home last night, he had heard her. Though the flat was full of lustful groans and moans, it was her he heard first—not that he wanted to hear—but he did all the same. It was unfortunate, but he knew her too well; he knew her voice, knew what she sounded like when she cried and even when she moaned. He learned it from years of being her brother and longer years of watching her escapades with so-called boyfriends.

He wondered what he said, what Sherlock did. What did he tell her so she would take her clothes off? Rooney was smart, but no match for Sherlock and his way with words. He wondered if she was okay and as funny as the thought was, he wondered if he hurt her.

The last question was _why_. She was an amazing woman. Sharp, beautiful and strong when she needed to be. Sure, she had her problems; alcohol, depression, but she was still here. Only not _here_ but in Sherlock's bed instead. The _why_ rumbling through his head, the question that made him grind his teeth was _why Rooney_ out of everyone. All these years without anyone in his life, all the people he met all the victims he could have fallen for. Out of everyone, it was her he had to mess with? Was it just because she meant so much to John? No. He was cold, but not that cold.

He would never tell her, but Rooney was his baby sister and he did not take that lightly.

Rooney emerged from the corridor a moment later, her curly hair in a bigger mess than usual. Her walk was hobble as she entered, her hand scratching into the messy tuff atop her head.

"Good morning," she sang happily, not seeing the malcontent in John's face. There was not a single care in her mind, other than the pain between her legs. Still, even the pain didn't seem to faze her much as she took careful steps towards the kitchen.

"Sleep well?" He continued the normal routine, watching her walk to the kettle with little grace. Rooney sighed calmly, contentment lacing her breath.

"Amazing," she smiled, "Tea?"

"No fine, thank you," she finally picked up on his tone.

Rooney turned, forgetting the kettle to turn to her dear almost brother. She leaned on the edge of the dinner table, knowing it would take too much effort to walk to the other end of the room. She opened her mouth to ask what was wrong, but knew the answer. "I know you're mad at me." She left it at that.

John's face turned into a far too familiar forced smile. He spoke plainly, watching her far more intensely than she would have preferred. "Why do you think I'm mad at you?"

Rooney patted the wood on the table, wiping away crumbs that collected from lord knows when. Mrs. Hudson had put her foot down, letting the boys know for a certain fact that she certainly was not their housekeeper. She smiled, not because of Mrs. Hudson, not at the crumbs, but at herself. She wondered why she was thinking of crumbs while her mind she be set on a collection of words that would save her. It was futile; she could talk herself out of anything, but not with John. No, he knew her too well.

"He can't take care of you." John spoke when she didn't. John watched her, waiting for her face to turn to anger, but instead she simply watched. She watched him with an unreadable expression on her face. Her eyes wandered, but they were not heavy. They wandered freely, scanning pass the kitchen, going pass John before coming back down to the crumbs.

"I don't need taking care of." There couldn't have been a bigger lie in the world. Forcing movement in her legs, she made her way to John. "And what if I said it was just for sex?" She kneeled in front of John, resting her head in his lap. John watched her cautiously, allowing her to rest her head, but not accepting the lie she was trying to sell him.

"Sex?" He saw her wait for him to put his hand in her hair, like they used to do before Mickey died. A spark of jealousy ignited in his chest, wondering if she had allowed Sherlock to do this too. However, he pushed it aside, hanging on her words as she spoke.

"I can't sleep at night," she spoke truthfully, "I need something to help me and seeing as alcohol is clearly out of the question, I needed…something else."

John finally put his hand in her hair, rubbing waves away from her as he took in her words. He wondered if it was his bed she would have crawl into if he had not pushed her away all those years ago.

"Okay," he simply said, not accepting, nor declining her words.

"Okay?" She raised her head to look at him.

"Okay." Rooney watched him, uncertainty masking her judgement on his words.

"So will you come with me then? To the bank that is." She abruptly raised herself from the floor, hearing Sherlock wake at his turn. John hadn't missed her quick movement, watching her carefully walk away as Sherlock entered, his eyes scanning the room for Rooney.

"Why don't you take him?" His words came out heavy.

Rooney didn't look back, knowing exactly whom he meant. "Because he has cases to solve," she spoke plainly.

"Do I?" Sherlock asked, walking pass John into the kitchen.

"Well, you must," she ensured, finally turning the kettle on.

Rooney allowed her eyes to fall onto Sherlock's face as he stood at her side, grabbing a cup from the cabinet. She smiled at him gingerly, hiding her face from John and taking him in again. He smiled down at her from the corner of his mouth, their minds remembering graphic scenes from the night before. She mouthed him a _hello,_ looking away from him shyly for the first time. Sherlock acknowledged her back, simply nodding at her with a mischievous smile.

John kept his eyes on Sherlock, as he stood far too close, watching his hands glide across her skin subtlety when she reached for a cup at her turn, making contact at the small of her back. He burned holes into his hands, wishing it would fall off when he let it linger.

"I'll go!" John spoke quickly and much louder than needed. Rooney quickly turned, her eyes wide as they settled on John.

"Perfect!" She clapped her hands together, her face unreadable for a moment. "Banker hate me; they hate dealing with _my kind_." She laughed, turning back to the boiling kettle.

"Ghastly creatures, bankers," Sherlock reached over her to reach the kettle, allowing his hip to touch her as he stepped in closer. Rooney watched him, taking the heat from his body.

"Your kind?" he said with the same intensity, watching Sherlock watching Rooney as she moved.

"The kind that have checks coming in from all over," she turned again. "I have the rights to all my commercially own pieces. Ergo, they have a lot of fun dealing with my funds." She waved her hands around flamboyantly at the work _ergo_.

"I have a…friend. A banker, if you like—" Sherlock began to say, but was cut off.

"No!" he shouted quickly, earning both Sherlock and Rooney to look at him confused. "We'll go to your bank, your bank is fine, all under control!"

"Are you alright?" Sherlock looked at his friend both amused and confused.

"Fine," John spat at him quickly. "I'm fine, why wouldn't I be fine?" Sherlock smiled down at him, his lips twitching with amusement. "Do you want to go?"

"Go? What now?" Rooney asked, barely having time to pour her tea. "I'm not even dressed," she laughed.

"Sooner the better," he jumped up from his seat, desperate to pull them apart. Rooney watched him, her eyes rolling. Though she knew why and what he meant, half of her was irritated and wanted to continue his agony. The other half felt the guilt of her deeds probing her.

"Oy fine, you irritating man," she forced a laugh, taking one drink of tea before putting it down. She would never be able to have a cup a tea in this flat. "Give me a second to put some pants on." She looked at Sherlock, whispering to him low before she walked to her room.

Sherlock smiled, watching her. _You two behave._

* * *

Rooney came back out ten minutes later, dressed in a plain blue dress with deep pockets. She left her messy curly hair down, fingering through it as she walked in, finding both Sherlock and John sitting at opposite sides of the room. John's eyes were glued on Sherlock, dissecting him in the most painful way. Sherlock did the same, only his eyes watched John with fascination.

"Would you two like a moment?" She asked awkwardly, knowing she was the source of the tension. She wondered what had happened in the few minutes she'd stepped out. Did they talk? What did they say?

"Yes, good," John stood without taking his eyes off Sherlock. Rooney shifted from foot to foot, her awkwardness deepening as she watched the two friends argue without words. It was not right, wasn't—

"Rooney?" John called her. She hadn't noticed him move pass her. "Well come on, the cab's here." He had an impatient smile on his lips as he held his hand out to her. Rooney looked over to Sherlock. He smiled and nodded. Rooney smiled back, walking over and taking John's hand.

He led her down the stairs easily, tugging her behind him. His hand squeezed a little tighter than preferred onto Rooney's. "What did you two talk about?"

"Nothing," he said looking at her "Nothing," he repeated but turned to smile at her; a real smile.

"You're a pain," she smiled back at him, walking to the door.

"Oh, Rooney dear!" Mrs. Hudson called out from her flat. Rooney let go of John's hand, turning to see the kind older woman. "A letter came for you!" She waved the piece of paper in the air.

"A letter?" She asked confused.

"It had my address, but your name on it. I'm not too sure, dear," she handed Rooney the letter. Rooney looked at it as though someone had handed her a foreign object. It was weird enough for her to receive a letter, considering no one but her assistant knew where she was. That said, she would have sent it to Rooney's new address instead of Mrs. Hudson's.

Rooney opened her mouth to speak, but wasn't too sure what to say. "Weird," was all she could manage, her hands going to open the letter.

"Rooney, the driver's waiting!" John called out suddenly. Rooney jumped, putting the letter in her pocket. "Coming! Thanks Mrs. Hudson."

* * *

Nothing. There was absolutely nothing. Missing husband, he ran away with his mistress. Stolen jewellery; the junky daughter stole them. Cat "_ran away_"; which was really just code for it died and the child's parents were too weak to tell the child the truth. Yes, in short, there was nothing.

Sherlock wandered the house, bruiting. His boredom moved him from room to room in his house, searching for something to keep his mind busy. He had already gone through John's laptop, finding nothing entertaining as usual. Sappy e-mails, porn sites and notes on his blog. John could be such a simple man at times.

He went to Rooney's room, finding it odd to think it belonged to her. Though her stuff was all over; paint caught on an old towel under the easel, half finished paintings rest against the walls, it didn't seem right. There was clothing all over the floor; as well as bunches of clothing she hadn't bothered to take out of the box. It was definitely _her_ room, but not _her_ bedroom. Her sweet scent of vanilla and jasmine hardly lingered in here.

In Sherlock's bed however, the scent was strong. He could smell it even before he completely reached his own. She was all over his room. Her dress was still on his floor, her hairs on his pillows. She had taken over his life so suddenly. Sherlock smiled, thinking of the way she laid exhausted in his bed last night. Her soft skin peering out of his blankets, the tattoo on her arm twitching he let his fingers glide over it.

He had her three times—or she let him have her three times. She had awoken something in him he didn't know he would enjoy. He never understood people and their _need_, their _drive_ for someone. And yet, here he was pining for her to come back as quickly as possible. He wanted to kiss her; touch her. He wanted to feel the loss of control he had around her; wanted to feel the effect she had on him. She was better than any drug.

Unfortunately though, she was not here. It had hardly been an hour and already Sherlock was growing restless. He was bored and a bored Sherlock was never a good Sherlock. He wandered around his room, pulling drawers open and closing them. In his bottom drawer, he found his gun, nuzzled in a pair of trousers. He picked it up, remembering its familiar weight. He dropped it his pocket, closing the drawer with his foot.

* * *

"You're being ridiculous, I just thought you should know," Rooney hastily marched away from John, not looking back or bothering with the cab. Night had fallen and Rooney finally saw that he had done it on purpose. He made sure to keep her away from home all day. He spent the entire day; convincing her into things she had no interest in. _Go back to Paris_, _get a little job_, _trying going out at night_. He wanted whatever was happening between her and Sherlock to stop. It was clear and it was irritating.

Rooney had come here for help, wanting to rid of her urge to drink and take rest. Going back to Paris just meant back to work. And if not work, it was just a reminder of her old life, her busy, social, life—her lonely life that was filled with people.

"I'm just saying," John followed behind her, keeping up with ease. "There isn't much for you here." He kept his voice a steady, trying to hide the evidence of his peak of calmness. "You're so talented, why waste it here?" _Here_ Rooney laughed. He suddenly spoke of London as though it were just another city. Hypocrite.

"There isn't anything I want in Paris right now." Rooney opened the front door, slamming it in John's face. John gave a calming sigh, ridding himself of his irritation before following her. Rooney took heavy steps up the stairs, her mind a red blur. John was a great man, but even great men seemed to know little on how to keep a woman calm.

Rooney however stopped abruptly once she reached the top, her shouting catching John's attention. "Oh my goodness!" Her eyes shot down to John's in a force of habit.

John rushed in behind her, his eyes catching what she was shouting over. "What are you doing?" John's voice hardly did anything as Sherlock shot the wall. "Stop it!"

Sherlock's eyes rose, stopping on Rooney's face before he looked back at the wall. "Bored," he shot once more.

"What?" John growled, hardly in the mood for this. Sherlock suddenly stood, his eyes stopping on John's face now before he looked back at the wall.

"_Bored!"_ He shot twice—three times more.

"Would you stop that?" Rooney hissed, walking up to Sherlock and grabbing his hand, putting down by his side. Her eyes were full of irritation, but Sherlock quickly saw it was not from him. Both she and John were hours later than a simple bank run would take. He took her somewhere. He said something and she was angry.

"What's all this noise now?" Mrs. Hudson added in on the far too busy conversation.

Sherlock shot the wall once more, this time holding his tongue.

"My wall!" Mrs. Hudson hissed. "I'm taking that off your rent."

"Why would you do that?" Rooney hissed at him at her turn, grabbing his arm to bring him closer to her height. Sherlock's eyes were twisted with irritation, his own building up on her own when she took the gun from him.

"What did he say to you?" Sherlock didn't bother to keep his voice down.

"That's none of your business!" John belted.

So he had said something to her.

"Sherlock that's my wall!" Mrs. Hudson added once more. John shouted something else that both Rooney and Sherlock missed, the room already too busy.

"_OKAY!" _Rooney shouted, her anger building up to the top. "Everyone shut up!"

"I've had enough of this," John grumbled, turning on his heels and walking back down the stairs.

"John!" Rooney called out redundantly. Mrs. Hudson followed behind him, giving up on trying to figure the direction of the argument. "Well that was lovely. Why would you shoot the wall?" Rooney went back to Sherlock who was still standing in the middle of the room.

Sherlock looked down at her, his face unimpressed. She was unrightfully angry with him now, taking whatever John had said and lashing on him. Rooney watched him, her face twisted in anger. The longer she watched the more her tight expression loosened. Something in her found it impossible to stay angry at him.

"Sorry," she finally sighed. "John heard us the other night and he's not in the best mood." She tried to condone, resting her head against his chest.

"I know," he agreed, placing his arms around her shoulders. Sherlock hadn't even though of John's reaction. "What did he say?" He asked, already calculating what he must have said to her.

"How about we don't," she raised her head to him. Sherlock dropped his arms from her shoulders to her waist, bringing her closer to him.

"Okay," he agreed. Rooney twitched slightly, growing annoyed by that word. Sherlock gave a low chuckle, something in him drawing him to comfort her. He calmed her, dipping his head down to her, taking her lips. Rooney snaked her arms around his neck, bringing him deeper into her mouth.

He didn't know why his first instinct was to kiss her, or why he continued to find pleasure from it, but at this moment, it didn't matter. He tightened his grip around her, his hands firmly on her hips before pulling away, his hand landing against something stiff in her pocket. Rooney watched him pull a piece of paper out her pocket, holding it out.

"A letter?"

"Oh right," she remembered, taking the letter in her hand. "I actually forgot." Sherlock eyed it curiously, his mind landing on the same conclusions she had this morning. It was odd for her to receive mail so soon.

Her fingers went to open the letter for the second time again. She ripped the corner only to get the letter blown out of her hand. The apartment suddenly vibrated and exploded from the outside. Rooney shouted in surprise, her little body flying forward, as well as Sherlock's.

Sherlock fell with a heavy thud, his shoulder taking most of the impact. His mind went dull for a moment, his eyes murky. "Rooney?" He called out, not finding her. "Rooney!" He called out again.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock strummed a chord on his violin, his brother's words lost. He was too busy—too far to hear. His brother sat across from him, though he could have been in his lap and he still wouldn't have heard him. John would kill him. Even though there was nothing he could have done, John would kill him. Sherlock was far from being his favourite person of late and then was this. This would some how be his fault.

What worst, in all the commotion, it was then Sherlock noticed something he shouldn't have. He was worried—god, how irritating. He didn't know which bothered him more, John's reaction, or his own realization. Sherlock did not worry _for_ people. Sherlock took care of Sherlock and that was it. He remembered why he never allowed anyone to lay in his bed, to take his mind. It was the worry, the weight on his mind and on his heart. His mind was a perfectly balanced being, a delicate computer. He had nor room, nor time to concern himself with things like sex and companionship, or the way a body felt curled tightly against him, even if it did feel…good.

"Sherlock, are you even listening?" Mycroft's voice was so potent, bringing the distraught detective back from his mind.

"Hardly," his spoke truthfully, his voice barely registering as he plucked another string, rattling Mycroft's irritation.

"Sherlock," Mycroft sighed, exasperated by his brother's lack of cooperation. His mind was on the girl; the woman he warned him to distance himself from. Mycroft knew from the moment he had kissed her in the restaurant, she would be trouble to him. She was a problem. She _had_ problems. Besides the attention she would draw—the unwanted attention Mycroft tried to keep from his brother—she was a distraction. Bollocks if Sherlock was smitten. If it meant he would not take issues like this seriously, bollocks on them both. "Don't turn this down for her. I'm sure she'll be fine without you."

Sherlock flicked his violin briskly, earning another annoyed look from his brother. Of course she would be fine. Despite what John thought, despite what Sherlock even knew, Rooney was a strong woman. He knew this, more than ever.

_"I'm fine," _she had told him through the settling dust. Her body had flown all the way back into the kitchen. Of course it had. She was so small; she was lucky she didn't go through the kitchen window. "_That was fun_," she had half joked, her mangled body softened by her terrible humor.

Her body lay on its side; burns and scratches covered the side that had stood towards the window. The ones on her cheek would be gone in a couple weeks time. She hardly seemed to mind. She thought they made her look tougher. Sherlock couldn't agree. They were blasphemy on such a face, but he was too relieved to see she was okay to argue. Still, they were better than the ones on her arms, her waist. Splinters and shards of glass dug under her skin. Those would leave scars. He couldn't shrug that one off—and it rattled him at his chore. It bothered him that such skin would be tainted. The one on her hip saddened him enough, but now two more. It bothered him, and bothered him more how much it bothered him. She was poisoning his mind and was helpless to stop it. He tried to ignore the pain it caused him when he lifted her dress and saw how deep the glass cut her waist, or how deep the splinter in her arm went. He tried to concentrate on the anger she caused him at her unwillingness to go to the hospital once the police arrived.

"_I'm fine,_" he was beginning to grow tired of those few words.

"_You're not fine Rooney, look at you_," his body was down close to hers as she stayed on the floor. He didn't want to move her, didn't want to risk hurting her more. A medic stood at their side. Rooney hadn't even looked at him since he walked in. Her eyes were set on Sherlock's. He kept his own on her arm, her waist, her blood stained dress, anywhere but her eyes.

"She isn't why," Sherlock said bringing his thoughts back to the present. Mycroft couldn't have been more wrong. If anything, he wanted an excuse to keep his mind off Rooney. He needed something to keep his priorities in check. Mycroft laughed, not believing him

"I'm certain_,"_ his brother spoke quickly as John's voice came from down the stairs in a panic. Sherlock eyed his brother, strumming louder on his violin.

"Sherlock?" John huffed as he rushed in the flat, a look of trepidation covering his face.

"John," Sherlock kept a brisk tone to him.

"I saw on the telly, are you okay?" His question was to Sherlock, though not at all for him as he looked around the messy flat. Splinters of wood and glass and dust were sprawled all over the floor. He rubbed his neck, relief trumped by panic when he saw Sherlock seemed to be fine, but Rooney was nowhere in sight.

"Me?" He could hardly mask the surprise when he asked. "Oh, yeah fine, gas leak apparently."

"And Rooney?" He at his turn did not hide the truth he hid in his tone. He rubbed his neck furiously, his nerves tense. "Where is she?"

"She's fine," Mycroft answered for Sherlock, not trusting his brother's voice on the matter.

"No offense, but I wasn't talking to you," he meant all the offense. John looked to Sherlock, wanting to hear it from him. His anger towards the consulting detective melted away, as he quickly prayed he was wrong in saying he could not take care of Rooney.

"She's fine, John," he reassured him. Still, though he knew it to be mostly true, he hoped he would not want to find out for himself. He hoped he would not check the empty beds in the house, or ask why she wasn't here. "I can't," he went back to his brother, trying to end one conversation before he started another.

"Sherlock," his brother scolded him.

"How's the diet?" He persisted on pestering his brother, taking the conversation in his preferred direction. Mycroft paid no attention to his brother's stubbornness, instead merely turning back to John.

"Perhaps you can talk some sense into him, John?" Mycroft fished. The two continued redundant banter, going back and forth with things John only half paid attention to. He looked over in the direction of Rooney's bedroom—or Sherlock's. He couldn't hear a peep coming from the hall.

"How was the lilo?" Sherlock said quickly, seeing John's eyes wander.

"Sofa, Sherlock. It was the sofa." Mycroft noted, noticing the continuing attention his neck got from his hand. Sherlock noticed as well.

"Of course," it was quite obvious.

"How… Never mind."

"Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you and he became…pals. What's he like to live with? Hellish I imagine." There was a hint of amusement in Mycroft's voice.

"I'm never bored." John did not understand why he suddenly brought it up.

"Good, that's good, isn't it?" He kept the same amusement in his voice. Sherlock sighed, knowing where his brother was going. The composed man stood, attempted one last time to hand Sherlock the file. Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on his brother. Mycroft adjusted his sore jaw, a brow raised as he turned to John.

"Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends. Civil servant," he handed the file to John instead. Mycroft briefed both John and the barely attentive Sherlock on the case, though Sherlock's thoughts were visibly still on the same as John's. The only difference was John tried to be attentive.

He thought of Rooney. He thought maybe, just maybe he was wrong for the first time in his life. He was wrong in getting involved in something he knew little of. _Someone _he knew nothing of.

"You've got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don't make me order you." Sherlock sighed once more when Mycroft interrupted his thoughts.

"I'd like to see you try." His lips twitched.

"Perhaps Rooney will talk some sense into you." Mycroft threated. Sherlock growled low, warning his brother without John growing suspicious. Still, John watched the two confused, his body going stiff at the mention of her name.

Mycroft laughed, when he said nothing, the realization that he had his brother trapped was too delicious. "That's what I thought," his voice was low as he turned to John. "Goodbye John," he smiled, looking over at his brother before walking to the door. "See you very soon."

Sherlock began to violently bring the bow down over his violin, properly annoying his brother in the same way he did as he walked away. His brother was pushing him further away from Rooney, bringing him closer to the idea that he could not keep her in his mind.

"Why'd you lie?" John asked as Sherlock finished his lash of anger. Sherlock looked at John. "You've got nothing on; not a single case. That's why the wall took a pounding. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?"

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Nice, I see. Sibling rivalry, now we're getting somewhere." John shook his head, his frustration coming back to him now that Mycroft was gone. He had no idea, just as Mycroft hadn't of the uncertainty in Sherlock's heart—no mind. Sherlock didn't have a heart.

Silence fell between them both.

"I'll leave Rooney alone," Sherlock announced suddenly. He spoke as though it were for John's benefit, leaving his own out. "If you like."

"What?" John looked at him confused. "You'll do what?"

Sherlock shifted, his emotions suddenly making him uncomfortable. "There'll be no living with you if I don't." He found a reasonable lie.

"Sherlock, you can't just…" he tried to find his words—and the reason for him defending something he did not condone. "Is Rooney okay with…that?" He had difficulty finding his thought.

"She's dear to you and you to her," he avoided his question.

"Yes, but Sherlock—" The consulting detective's phone began to ring.

"Sherlock Holmes." He answered. John watched as his face went from serious to full of glee. "Yes of course, how could I refuse?" he jumped up. "I've been summoned. Coming?"

"If you want me to?" He couldn't help both the surprise and hint of relief wash over him as life began to tilt back to his form of normality.

"Of course," Sherlock smiled. "I'd be lost without my blogger."

* * *

Rooney rolled her shoulders, trying her best to avoid moving her arm while it hung in the sling. At first, it seemed at though nothing could feel worst than the splinter in her arm. The shard of wood came from the windowsill and was long enough to properly sting. Then they took it out and that in itself was a whole new level of pain. It took two nurses to hold her down, even after they had given her a numbing cream. Then came the stitches on her side.

Rooney did not do well with hospitals. Sherlock had looked at her, so frustrated as she argued with him. Even after the stretcher was brought in, she argued.

"_Sherlock please, I'm fine_," she whined, her eyes fixed on his face as they fastened her down. His eyes were all over the place, landing everywhere else but in her eyes. He would not look at her. Though she wondered why, her attention was preoccupied by the pain she pretended she didn't have. "_Sherlock?_" she asked when he continued to avoid her eyes.

He looked down at her, his eyes falling on the ground beside her and full of worry and something else that she couldn't read. "Ill go get you some extra clothes," he stood from her side. Rooney shot her hand out from the restrain, pain surging through her as she moved her injured arm. Sherlock finally looked her in the eyes, surprise taking the place of the emotions he hid.

"_Sherlock,_" she said once more. He leaned back down, his body close to hers. He said nothing as he watched her. It made her heart tighten and suddenly she felt sick. She didn't know why he acted that way. Considering, she should have been the distraught one. She had been the one with the splinter in her arm and the glass pressing up against vital parts.

"How are we feeling this morning, Miss King?" The sound of the Doctor's high voice suddenly brought Rooney back to the pain in her body. Rooney raised her brow, the sound of her name surprising her. She carefully rolled her shoulders once more as the small man walked in. "Your back hurt?" He asked before she could answer.

"What?" She asked, hardly aware that she had been doing this for the past half hour. "Oh, I don't know, it hurt seemed to help. I'm a little sore," she told him as he walked around her bed. Her eyes stayed on him as he stood at her back.

"Ah, right!" there was something odd about his choice in words. "I'm just going to check your lungs," he fumbled with his stethoscope. Rooney watched him from over her shoulder. Something was off.

"So, by chance are you _the_ Rooney King?" he made polite conversation, opening the back of her hospital gown. "Take a deep breath."

Rooney obliged, pulling her messy hair over her shoulder and taking a deep breath. Most of her back was covered with the end of the bandage covering her ribs where the piece of glass cut. She let the breath go, his words registering in her mind. "Um, yes, I am. Are you a fan of—"

"I knew it! I told the others and they didn't believe me, but I knew it!" His tone jumped as he cut her off. Rooney furrowed her brows, giving a polite laugh before she spoke.

"I hope you don't think me rude, but it was Doctor what?" She asked him, watching him suddenly move around her.

"Jim," he said without his title.

"Doctor Jim?" She gave a small laugh as she corrected him.

"Doctor Jim," he said in a singsong manner. He stood with his arms crossed over, politely looking at her. Rooney stared back at him, her own polite smile wearing thin as he stood there without words.

"So?" She tried to keep her impatience to herself.

"So?"

"My lungs?" She asked, her faux-politeness fading.

"Yes!" He shouted, loud enough for everyone else in the hospital to hear, causing Rooney to jump and cringe, the surprise jolting pain through her. "They're fine!"

"So I can go home?" Her jaw was tight as she tried to take firm breaths to lessen the pain.

"Yes, why wouldn't you be able to?" She could have sworn he was mocking her.

"Great, well I guess I'll get dressed then," she hinted to him, now wanting only for him to leave her alone. No wonder she didn't like hospitals.

"Yes of course," he agreed, but merely stayed in place. Rooney couldn't stop herself from projecting her thoughts on her face, her brows coming together and her lips curving downwards.

"Anything else?" her tone was quick.

"Yes, glad you asked," he finally moved, reaching into the pocket of his white coat and pulling something out.

"Medics said they found this while they brought you in," he handed her a familiar piece of paper. Rooney quickly recognized it as the letter she had received yesterday morning.

"Where did they find this?" Her eyes went wide.

"They didn't say," there was uncertainty in his voice.

"But I was awake while they took me. It doesn't make sense for them to—" she tried to make sense as to why this letter was following her.

"Well open it," he cut her off for the second time. Feeling too tired to continue arguing, she carefully continued the rip in the letter she had made the night before. It took her a couple tries, her right hand unable to move while it hung in the sling. Dr. Jim watched her, not once offering help as she struggled.

Finally, she tore through, revealing a long text condensed on a single page.

"What is it?" He asked, his lips curled into a child-like smile.

Rooney kept her eyes on the letter, trying to figure out what it was. It seemed to be part of a French story, one she could not think of at that moment. What more though, there was something else, something odd about it.

"I'm not sure," she finally said, but when she looked up to meet his eyes, he was gone. Rooney looked right to left, confused. The curtain around her bed suddenly moved and she thought he had stepped out for a moment. Instead though, a woman with dark skin and a serious look took his place. She had a clipboard in her hand as she walked without looking at her.

"Rooney?" She asked, finally looking up.

"Yes?" She watched her confused.

"I'm Doctor Moore, I'm here to see how you're doing before I discharge you."

"What? No, Doctor Jim just came to check on me," she explained to the serious doctor. The doctor looked at her as though she were mad, before her expression turned to concerned.

"I'm sorry, did you bump your head when you fell?" She looked back down at her information on the board.

"No?" Rooney managed a forced laugh. The doctor eyed her curiously, her tone polite as she spoke.

"There is no Doctor Jim."

* * *

It took almost two more hours before Rooney was able to go home. An extensive search was done through out the hospital, looking for the mysterious man who visited Rooney, but nothing was found. It was racked up as a crazy fan looking to meet the artist, or even a reporter, but Rooney knew better. She knew fans, knew reporters. This man was neither. By the time she was out though, Rooney was too tired to care. She had been there all night and a greater part of the morning. All she wanted to do was go home, shower and sleep. The past 36 hours were weird enough; she hardly needed to add Jim to the list to complete the day.

She stepped out of the cab, relief washing over her as she finally made it home. It was weird, but just the sight of 221 Baker was enough to calm her completely. Despite the debris, despite the boards over the windows, it was a soothing sight. She stepped in, taking in the familiar scent of the boy's colognes from up the stairs and Mrs. Hudson's candles from across.

She went to climb the stairs; only to be stopped by her foot coming down on something, causing her to bring it back. Her heart tightened in her chest as she looked down, seeing yet another letter under her foot with her name written just as delicately. The station was just as good a quality as the last. Even before picking it up, she knew it was from the same person.

She picked it up looking at it for a long moment before putting it in her pocket as she tried desperately to convince herself it was nothing. She tried to convince herself that this was not odd and that it meant nothing. But even after all her uncertainty, the unknown plagued her.

She went to climb the stairs for a second time, but this time was stopped by the sound of three voices chattering behind her. The two familiar ones were of John and Sherlock, while the other was unknown.

Sherlock turned the corner first, his eyes growing wide as he spotted her at the foot of the stairs. He had a pair of sneakers in his hand and amusement on his lips until he saw her.

"Hello," she greeted him, a smile finally returning to her face after a long night.

"Hello," his face stayed serious, as his voice. Rooney forced herself to keep the smile on her face at his tone, but couldn't help letting it fall when he didn't adjust himself.

"Are you okay?" He asked, sounded more as though he should ask then he cared to ask.

"Yeah, doctors say I'm fine, despite," she looked down at her arm in the sling. "Had a weirdo in the hospital though. He had my letter and uhh…just got another, you know," she held up the envelope. Her tone was awkward as she tried to keep going, acting as though his sudden seriousness didn't hurt her.

Sherlock face somehow grew grimmer as he eyed the letter.

"No big deal, it's just weird." She lied, when she saw him look at it.

"Of course," he assured her, nodding. Rooney continued to wait for him to drop his odd behavior. She had no idea as to why he was acting this way though at this moment had no strength to persist.

Instead, she stepped closer to him, leaning up into him. She attempted to bring her lips up to his but he moved, letting her land her lips on his cheeks. Rooney eyed him confused when she pulled away. Sherlock kept his composure, saying nothing about the war waging in his mind. He held back his uncertainty, his irritation on how entrancing she was to him or how much the sight of her so fragile made him want to hold her. John came into view, leaving Sherlock the opportunity to move away.

"Rooney!" John sounded relieved for a moment as turned the corner. Rooney looked behind the tall detective, seeing both him and the owner of the third voice, Lestrade. She remembered him being the one eying her back on the rooftop, back when Sherlock looked at her as though she were the most fascinating woman on the earth.

John's face quickly went from relieved to shock as he noticed the scratches on her face and sling holding her arm.

"You told me she was fine!" John shouted, angry eyes shooting to Sherlock. Sherlock turned to John, then back to Rooney when her voice chimed back.

"You didn't tell him I was in the hospital?" She sounded hurt.

"Hospital?" John was unpleasantly surprised.

"Well, I'm fine," she reassured him. "But yes, I was at the hospital."

John growled at Sherlock, his eyes angry and his skin almost turning red. Lestrade silently walked pass them, being sure not to make a sound as he slipped by the angry triangle.

"I'll just wait outside…" He spoke, though none seemed to hear him and at that moment, he was fine with that. He had no idea what was going on or even bothered to question why the Typographer from the rooftop was there.

"Are you okay?" John put his anger down for a moment as he stepped closer to the small woman in front of them both.

"I told you I'm fine, John," she reassured him once more, laughing lightly at his concern. John's eyes remained sad, but a warm smile formed on his face for her sake. "Besides, it was no one's fault." She spoke, still unaware of all that had happened while she was away.

"No, Rooney, it wasn't an accident," John said, forgetting she didn't know. "It wasn't a gas leak, someone attacked us." He kept much out, not wanting to give away anything she shouldn't know.

Rooney's eyes went up to Sherlock, looking at him by reflex. Despite his mind trying to stay away from her, he still allowed himself to nod, letting her know this was the truth.

"Something is happening, someone is playing a game with us and people's lives are at stake." He explained quickly, trying to stay gentle despite how much this all angered him. He didn't know who this person was or why he was doing this, but putting Rooney in the line of fire was enough to push him to the edge. He was going to find him and he would stop him.

"Well then go," Rooney insisted. John looked at her, unsure. "You said people's lives are at stake John, go. I can take care of myself. I always do." She assured him.

It was Sherlock's turned to grow nervous. She had never been left alone before. Since the day she arrived, she always had someone at her side. He wanted to stay. He wanted to take care of her.

"Go," she said again, though this time he could have sworn it was to him. He looked her in the eye. She smiled at him. Her smile was so warm; it made him sick to be so cold towards her, especially when she did nothing wrong.

"We won't be long," John assured her, kissing her forehead lightly before turning on his heels. Sherlock went to follow, but stopped once John was out the door. He went back to Rooney who still hadn't taken her eyes off him.

"Behave," he said to her, taking his turn to kiss her forehead. Relief washed through Rooney as he kissed her. She took in his scent, loving the smell and the warmth he radiated.

"Don't I always?" She teased him.

* * *

Rooney sat on the floor of the living area, trying to keep her mind off Sherlock. She tried not to analyze his words, or the distance he kept, or even the kiss he turned back for. Instead of going straight for a shower, or even to bed, she kept her mind busy.

She went straight to her room, carefully digging out old books from the half unpacked boxes in her room. It took her longer than it usually would, only using one hand and half the force she had.

She sat herself in the center of the living area, placing the books around her. There was something wrong with the letters, something only she would notice. She thought of Jim and the prospect that he may have been a fan, or a reporter. If that was right, then her mind then went to Mycroft who said reporters were looking for her. If that was right then the idea that it was a fan sending her these letters seemed to make sense.

But as she looked at the letter, it was then she finally realized why it seemed odd. It was full of errors in the font. It took her a while to notice, but once she did, it made sense. It was also then she was happy her old Type books were with the rest of her books.

What did not make sense was why a fan would send her such letters. Rooney was no one important in the word of typography. She did her part in small fonts used in a handful of campaigns and even one well known perfume add.

Still, it was not work people would recognize her for. Type was not something people were known for. Font was at the same level, if not lower then logos. Logos received awards and while people who understood it appreciated it, it wasn't an everyday thing. People never stopped to understand or care for the work put in. Everything was Helvetica and for a good reason too.

She flicked through her books, her eyes finally landing on the page she searched for. Point size. It was amazing she remembered it, but there it was. She read the page rapidly, taking the information in as quickly as possible, and then going back to her letter. It was an extract from _Le Petit Prince_, a French book she knew well enough. Everything was spelt correctly, but the letters were off. Letters are supposed to follow a certain line, a line called The Point. All the points in the letters were off, skewed.

Rooney shook her head, not understanding whatever fan took the time to bug her so efficiently.

The second was completely different. The second was a list, dictating objects to be sent off to specific people. Though the people on the list consisted of John Does, or Donna Nobles, it was not that which caught her attention. It was the constant use of underlining, bold-italic on the word 'to'.

_"Michael Jackson __**to**__ John Doe._

_Jean-Luc Picard __**to**__ Mimi Lemieux_

_Vincent Van Gogh __**to**__ Phil Collins_

_Melody Pond __**to**__ Richard B._

_Annie S. __**to**__ Alyssa D._

_Peggy Lee __**to**__ Christopher Lee"_

Rooney twitched, her years of training coming back to her as she examined the cluster of highlights. Only one of the three was to be used to showcase a word. Using two was pushing it. Three was just being ignorant.

What was going on?


	12. Chapter 12

**I'd like to apologize for the gaps between chapters. Like most, I'm a full time student, but this story is something that's constantly on my mind. I's also love it if I could get some more reviews, please. It would mean a lot to have some feedback :)**

* * *

Rooney laid back carefully in her bed, her knees crossed with the letters draped over each. She had given up, but not on reading. She had given up _pretending_ to read them. No matter how many times she would go back to the first word, it was only the three first that sunk in before she wandered. She shifted against her pillow, not quite getting comfortable enough. For lack of a better word, the bed sucked.

Okay, that was a lie. The bed was plenty fine. Unfortunately though, it wasn't _his_ bed. This one was so cold and unfamiliar, like a hotel bed.

He didn't say it. He didn't have to. Sherlock might have been the smartest man in the world, but Rooney was the sharpest tool in the shed. Even with that though, it wouldn't take a genius to see something was brewing in his mind, and it wasn't just on whatever sicko was threatening to blow people up.

His eyes were a storm, full of light and danger, but it was the danger he loved. Sherlock had accused her of living for the thrill, but he was no different, no better. This was what excited him, what turned him on. The problem was, Rooney knew what else turned him on. She knew, because it _was her_. He could pretend, could deny if he so pleased, but truth would always be the hardest to disguise.

So when he told her she should sleep in her own bed, she began to draw out the possibilities. By now, it was safe to say Rooney was a woman who knew what was what and a woman such as Rooney didn't get told to sleep in her own bed. She wasn't stupid and she was far from being a young girl whose life crashed into a million pieces when a man ignored her. Still, it would be inhuman to say it didn't bug her. She was, after all human…she wasn't Sherlock.

A knock drew her out of her thoughts. Rooney brought her mind back down, looking at the door. John peered his head in, a gentle smile on his face.

"Knock, knock," he waited for permission to enter. Rooney sat up, using her free arm to help her. She winced a little, pain shooting through her side, somehow forgetting about the stiches along her ribs.

"Are you okay?" John opened the door a little wider, his eyes dropping to concerned. Rooney held up her free hand, stopping John from the worry he'd have anyway.

"No, no," she assured him. "I'm fine, come in."

"You really should let me have a look at that," he closed the door behind him. Rooney laughed, scooting over to face him.

"You really don't trust hospital doctors." She poked at him, laughing for the third time at his instance to check over the work the doctors did.

"It isn't that I don't trust them," he made a spot for himself beside her on the bed. "I just don't like them," he gave a harsher truth. Rooney dropped a brow, laughing a little in disbelief at her dear friend.

"Well next time someone tries to blow me up, I'll call you first," she joked. John twitched a little, his smile fading but staying prominent. It was the sadness in his eyes that gave him away. "I'm really fine John," she assured him once more, placing the good hand on his shoulder.

John kept the same sad smile on his face for a moment, lost in thoughts and memories. "Of course you are," his smile grew. He dropped the subject all together.

"What I want to know," she let her head rest on John's shoulder. "Is what in her majesty's name is wrong with Sherlock?" She tried to make light of a question she hardly wanted to share with John.

John snaked his arm around her shoulders, being sure to stay above where her splinters went in. "I don't think anyone knows," he let a few chuckles pass his lips. Rooney gladly joined in. This was why she loved John so much. It hardly took much to let their fighting slip away, like sand in a tightly clenched fist.

"But did he say anything? It was just—I don't know sudden. He was fine, literally fine right up until the explosion and—" She pretended to sound unbothered, but failed miserably, caught by her words.

"Rooney," John stopped her. The curly haired woman laughed nervously, realizing the hole she was digging.

"I mean, it's not like I care or anything," she lied, nudging her shoulder into John. He smiled, for her sake, his mind wandering as he watched the glimmer in her eyes fading. He mentally cussed at himself, not able to remember if she had ever really gotten it back since she had arrived.

He also wondered if he should dare to repeat the words Sherlock had told him this morning.

_"I'll leave Rooney alone."_

Rooney was right on it being sudden though. He and Sherlock argued over. Sherlock took the time and made the effort to argue to be able to continue to flock around her. There was a pull she had on him, something he had never seen in him.

"So what about these?" He changed the subject, picking up the letter lying around her. Rooney sighed, frustrated, understanding them just as much as he.

"I'm chalking them up as weird fan letters." She said, picking them up. "I guess maybe someone found out about my old job, or something, I don't know."

"What do they say?" He looked at them, taking one form her hand. The one in his hand was list of names, looking otherwise ordinary.

"It doesn't really say anything," her brows furrowed. "I mean…this one," she held up her letter, "this is a bit from _Le Petit Prince_, but I don't think that's why…_they_ sent it to me." John eyed the other letter, letter curiously. "Its full of font with wrong point sizes."

John twitched, a clueless grimace covering his face. He hated it when he didn't understand what she was saying. Rooney laughed, fixing herself to explain, moving her sore arm as she leaned the letter in. "You see the capital L here?" She pointed to the first word on the page. It was a simple 'Le', seeming ordinary. "Then look at the P," she slid her finger to the third word: 'prince'. Something was odd about the word, but without being told he would never have seen anything wrong. "The bottom of the letter should go lower than the rest of the letters. Instead it matches the size of the capital T." She tried to explain.

John simply watched her, not wanting to admit he had no idea what she was talking about. Rooney looked up at him, admiring the lost look over his face. She smiled mischievously, continuing. She loved the rare moments where she knew more than John.

"This one is full of errors too." She pointed to John's letter. His eyes scanned it, this time quickly picking up on the errors. "The word 'to' is always underlined, bold, italic." She pointed from the top to the bottom of the page, pointing to the "_to_'s" all over the page. "What do you think it means?" She bit her lip, holding back on her discomfort.

John wanted to admit he didn't know—because he really didn't. But when John didn't know something, asking Sherlock was his last resort. It would take a good ten minutes before an answer arose, but it worked. This unfortunately was not a moment he wanted to admit he'd just ask Sherlock.

"Probably nothing," he lied through his teeth, a smile stinging his lips.

* * *

John paced back and forth, letting Sherlock watch him as he sat in his chair. He had both her letters in his hand, trying to see something she wouldn't check for; riddles, code words, letter games; nothing. He wouldn't admit it to her, but this did worry him. This wasn't just anything; this was serious. He didn't know how, or why but this wasn't just a fan sending letters.

Sherlock tried to ignore him. He knew what they were just by the crinkles on the corners; the tea stains across the page. They were the letters Rooney was getting and he wanted nothing to do with it. If it was anything to do with _her_, he wanted nothing to do with _it_. If it meant feeling, he didn't want to know.

"Sherlock," John finally asked.

"I'm not looking at them, John," he kept his eyes away from his.

"Why not?" He tried not to sound too surprised, but his effort failed him.

"No time," his words were truthful, but not his reason. John snapped almost suddenly, his back straightening as he watched Sherlock stay emotionless.

"Why are you avoiding her?" He thought out a dozen different questions before finally landing on that one. Sherlock said nothing, instead just watching John's face grow more and more irritated.

"I don't have time for this," he said once more, rising from his chair. "Anyway, isn't this what you wanted John?" He turned the question back to him. "Did you not want me to leave her alone?"

"Yes, but this is serious! Someone is sending her these letters, letters sent the same day all this started happening!" He began to shout, losing control on his anger.

"John, don't shout, just stay calm."

"No!" He yelled, but caught himself. He pursed his lips, closing his eyes to compose himself. "No, Sherlock." He said again. "I won't stay calm. Look I know I wasn't fond of the idea of you—" he tried to find a way to explain himself delicately. "_Being_ with Rooney, but this isn't about that. You can pretend not to care all of a sudden, but I know you do." He threw the letters on the ground in front of where he stood. "If you won't do it for her, do it for me, while you still have a friend." John stomped off, furious.

Sherlock eyed the letters. He wanted to pick them up so badly. Instead, he let his head fall in his hand, frustration taking over.

* * *

**Review! **


	13. Chapter 13

Rooney stared at the blank canvas across the room, like she had for an hour now. There was no exaggeration. A whole hour, she stared at it, trying to convince herself to get up and grab the brush. As soon as Sherlock and John left, she sat herself down on the very edge of her bed, waiting for inspiration to hit so she could move.

Three days. Sherlock had successfully gone three days without even looking at her. Considering they lived under the same roof, that was impressive, even to Rooney. However, she was not impressed enough to mask how incredibly irritated she felt—and by Her Majesty's greatness, she was irritated. Not only by his incredible ability to walk into a room, then out without her even seeing him leave—but that he had a valid excuse to avoid her.

Because of him, that poor lady in the car, and then the man on the side of the road with bombs strapped to him would live to see another day. Her heart broke a little at the thought of the poor old woman; the one who died trying to give him away...

But considering how twisted this person was; two out of three wasn't bad. Two of the three were able to see another day. It was an incredible gift he was able to give them but all she could think about was her own feelings. The selfish side of her pined for his attention—and yet despite how greedy she knew she seemed, she would have walked through the house naked if it meant getting his attention. John would be scared for months, but if it meant getting Sherlock to look her way, he could bill her for the therapy costs.

No, instead, she kept busy, trying to keep the memories of how Gin tasted out of her mind. She had better things to think about. Like what her plan was now that nothing was keeping her here. She was fine now, no alcohol for a long while now, couldn't even remember the burn a good shot of medicine gave.

"Hello?" A voice brought Rooney back from the darkness.

"In here, Mrs. Hudson," Rooney slid off the bed, attempting to bring herself closer to the canvas, but only stopping at the foot of the bed. Mrs. Hudson's heels clapped the old wood floors as she made her way down the hall, her eyes full of its usual light.

"Oh Rooney," she smiled, opening the door to let herself in. "How are you deary? Where are the boys?"

"They went to the gallery. Something about a fake painting," she said, letting the first question slide. "What can I do you for?" She glued her eyes to her canvas, as though if she looked away it might steal whatever hope of inspiration she had.

"That's nice," she smiled to herself, tilting her head, seeming to be lost in thought. Rooney couldn't stop herself from looking at her, loving how peacefully naïve she was. "Are you painting?" She asked, accidently letting Rooney's question drop as well. "I do love your work, especially the one with those people on it."

Rooney laughed at her vagueness. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, but no I'm not…at least I don't think so." She swayed back and forth on herself.

"But I thought you retired dear?" She stayed completely oblivious. Rooney looked at her with fondness, unable to stop herself from truly smiling at her in that short moment.

"Well I did but… You want to know something weird, Mrs. Hudson? A weird secret I never said aloud?" Rooney walked over to her canvas, picking up one of the brushes from the holder and tucking it behind her ear. Mrs. Hudson watched her, delight filling her eyes as the most famous woman she knew asked if she wanted to know a secret. "I always imagined this job to be sort of like a prostitute's, you know?" She confessed nonchalantly. Mrs. Hudson took a step back, not expecting those words to leave her mouth.

"My word, what a crude thing to say!" She sounded flabbergasted.

Rooney laughed, dragging her fingers over the tubes of paint. "No, hear me out!" She picked out a tube of Process Blue as well as Hooker's Green and placed them on the easel's ledge. "It's a classic joke right? What's it called when a prostitute has sex off the clock, right?" It was a weird thought that crossed her mind over and over when she started. When the money started to come in—the heavy pays—a normal person would be over joyed. Rooney just felt like a whore; selling things she did in her past time; things she did for pleasure for money. It didn't give her the contentment it should have. "What's it called? The sex she has for pleasure?"

"Where is this coming from?" Mrs. Hudson asked, properly confused, not understanding the sudden things she spoke of.

"Never mind, Mrs. Hudson, don't mind me, I'm just," she sighed deep. "I'm just a little restless; all this time alone here is rotting my brain."

"Yes, I suppose the boys have been very busy, haven't they? This should keep you busy, though, right?" She attempted to console her. Rooney thought she spoke about her painting, but was caught by the letter in Mrs. Hudson's hand. A small part of her knew she should have been surprised, or even upset, but by now, she was numb. This was the fifth one.

"Thanks." She said dryly, not meaning for her tone to reflect into Mrs. Hudson. "Just leave it on the bed, please." She was in no hurry to read whatever it had to say.

"Must be one heck of an admirer," she leaned over to place it over Rooney's messy bed, taking in the way her name was carefully written on the envelope. It hadn't even crossed her mind as odd that there wasn't anything else written on it. No address, no postage stamps.

"_I don't know if it's an admirer," _Rooney spoke to herself

"What?" She asked all the same.

"Nothing," Rooney smiled over her shoulder.

"Oh, okay…" There was familiar confusion on her face. "Well, if you need me dear, I'll be out for a few hours. I'm afraid I've gotten behind on my groceries," she laughed wickedly. "How silly of me!"

"Okay, Mrs. Hudson," she smiled wholeheartedly. "Have fun."

* * *

She had no idea where this seemingly new inspiration was coming from, but something was undoubtedly moving her hand. Blues and greens came first, yellows and gold's next. This would be her first abstract painting if she were counting.

This was the part she enjoyed; this is where the guilt came in for making money off her pleasure. She had blissfully lost track of time, or how much of it had passed. As she filled in the blank spots of the canvas, her hand seemed to glide easier, her strokes becoming more and more light. She was at her best here.

All pain, all distraction melted away. She couldn't even be bothered to remember Sherlock's name in that moment. All she thought of was the brush strokes and the high it gave her. So much so that she couldn't even hear the quiet cracks going through the house.

Rooney brought her brush down across the canvas, bringing a golden line down the center of the blues and green. The floorboard cracked in the hallway. Rooney heard this one, but stayed still, not thinking much of it. She put her thick paintbrush in the holder, picking up a thinner one.

Dipping the brush in the paint, she brought it almost all the way down on the canvas when another creak caught her attention.

"Hello?" She called out loud, her body still facing the canvas, but her eyes heading to her door. When another creak and no reply came, Rooney took heavy steps to her door. "This isn't funny, John—" she began to say, but when she flung the door open, no one stood there. Rooney furrowed her brows, wondering if the fumes from her paint were getting the better of her. Still, she let out another "hello?"

Again, no one answered. Rooney laughed aloud. _You're losing it, Rooney,_ she told herself. Her laugh was trumped however by another creak, this one coming from the living area. Quickly going back to her easel, she put down the brush and picked up a scalpel from one of the cups holding her tools.

"Hello?" She asked again, scalpel in hand as she walked out of her room. The floor creaked, beneath her feet. She tried to step lightly, giving herself enough quiet to distinguish her own creaks from the ones coming down the hall. She gripped the scalpel in her hand tighter, bringing it up at her waist as she walked. Wiping sweat from her free hand onto her pant, she stepping to the living area, her body ready to pounce the noise.

"Jesus," she breathed when she came face to face with an empty room. "_You're losing it, Rooney._" She laughed at her own ridiculous behaviour. Maybe she did need out of here. Maybe she was here too long and maybe it was already time to get back to work. Too bad though, wasn't a very long break.

Turning around, Rooney gasped, fear letting the scalpel fall straight out of her hands.

"Hello, Rooney," a voice she knew she recognized slithered into her ear.

* * *

Sherlock stepped into the flat, all instincts to look down the hall for Rooney being pushed away by his own stubbornness. He had gone three whole days without so much as looking at her, keeping perfectly busy. The pain of the old woman still stung like a fresh wound, but the promise of a little boy's safety was soothing. Still, kicking her was harder than kicking nicotine.

"Rooney," John called out from behind Sherlock. Sherlock walked into the living area, plopping himself down in his chair and intertwining his hands. He watched John put down the brown paper bag filled with Chinese food and place it on the kitchen table. When no sounds came back from her room, John went down the hall, walking easier than Sherlock had for what seemed like forever.

"Leave her alone, John," he spoke for his own benefit. He was in no mood to deal with her, or to remember how those piercing eyes could make him feel things The Great Sherlock Holmes shouldn't.

"Well, you don't have to worry, Sherlock," John sighed, coming back down the hall. "She must have gone out—" he began to say, his foot coming down on something. "—_Just hope it isn't the bar." _He said to himself, picking up what his foot came down on.

Sherlock's phone began to chime, the ringing becoming all too familiar by now. "Hello?" He answered, watching John pick up what seemed to be a thin, metal object.

John eyed it curiously, not seeing anything particularly off about it, other than its placement on the hallway floor. He looked over at Sherlock, who had his phone in his hand. The indifference in his face melted away when he noticed.

"Rooney?" Sherlock said into the pink phone.

* * *

**Review! **


	14. Chapter 14

**I just want to start by thanking all you amazing, beautiful, wonderful, magnificent—and all other synonyms to incredible—people who have taken the time to read my story as well as you amazing people who took the time to review. I have taken note of all your comments and good constructive criticism and did not take it lightly! **

**Unfortunately, I am completely alone on this story! That said, if anyone is interested (through my own screening) I am interested in help so to make this story all that it can be! **

**Once again, thank you so much and I love you all!  
**

** Stefani**

* * *

Sherlock shot up, feeling panic rush through his veins. It coursed through his body, starting in his heart and burning to every extremity. "Rooney, where are you?" His words got ahead of his mind.

"Ah-ah-ah," Rooney's voice shook as she repeated her captor's words, holding a flat tone as she did. "You know that isn't how the game works," there was a pause between each word.

"Sherlock?" John's face was serious as he tried to glue the pieces of their conversation together, his lips tight in a line while his eyes raged with fires dancing warm enough to make even Sherlock shutter.

"What do you want?" Sherlock found it in himself to find composure, taking deep breaths to stay calm. This was what _he_ wanted. This was what made _him_ happy, this sick bastard making Rooney talk for him. He needed to be calm; the calm he had been practicing to be able to distance himself from the one woman who was suddenly unavoidable.

"You like this one, don't you Sherlock? I can see why." He could hear how twisted her words were as she said this. "Oh, don't worry, she isn't my type, but—" he replied through her. "But still, this will be so—" he heard her take a deep, jagged breath.

"Rooney?" He hissed when she didn't finish her captor's sentence.

"_This is will be so much fun_," there was a sick tone to her voice.

Sherlock couldn't hide the twist forming on his face. John didn't miss this, his shoulders going still as he watched his face grow grim. "Sherlock?" He shouted again, only wanting answers.

"You know—I'm looking right at her. She is staring right into my eyes, Sherlock. I'm looking into the eyes you did."

"No," he chocked, unable to believe the words being fed to him through Rooney's voice. Why would he—why to her? Why would he show her his face? There was no other reason, unless he wanted to…no. He couldn't say it.

"Oh yes, Sherlock," Rooney sniffled. He could see her; picture her. He imagined her on the floor of some dark, dirty basement, tears rolling down her cheeks while she pretended to be brave. He hoped she was tearing him apart with those eyes he threatened him with. He hoped, despite her tears, that her eyes were angry, instead of weak.

"What's the game?" He asked with a handful of scorn in his voice. He was torn, wanting to stay gentle for her, but too angry towards both her capture and himself to be soft.

"This game is…" she paused again. Sherlock swallowed hard. It was impossible to tell if it were her pausing, or him. "A little cruel." The phone clicked.

"Hello?" Sherlock called hopelessly. "Rooney?" He shouted into the empty phone. "No!" He clenched the phone, wanting nothing more than to throw in on the ground, let it fall into a million pieces. He wanted to scream, to smoke, anything to numb the sudden stress over feelings he couldn't control.

"What? Where is she?" John yelled out to him from where he stood in the doorway. "Sherlock, where is she?" He asked, not finding a shred of patience in him.

"I don't know, John," Sherlock shoved the pink phone into his pocket. "I don't know—I don't know anything." His hands shot to his hair, grabbing handfuls at a time. He was so frustrated, so panicked. This was such an unwanted, new feeling.

This was why he pushed her away. This was the reason he couldn't bring himself to look at her anymore. His mind went blank when he thought of her. She was poisoning him. Everything she did or said clogged him mind, ever since the first day…every since she conveniently came into the picture.

Then a terrible thought dawned on him.

"How long have you known Rooney?" Sherlock asked suddenly, bringing the already angry look on John's face to an unimaginably tighter one.

"What?" He asked, too tightly wound for these million questions he had for Rooney. "What does that matter—"

"How long have you known Rooney?" He looked at his friend with a sudden look of disgust, of betrayal.

"More than a decade—"

"Don't lie to me!" Sherlock shouted.

She had been a distraction, directly starting the day they met. Could she have always been meant to be that? A distraction? What is she wasn't at all who she was suppose to be? What if John really hadn't known her that long? Was it a possibility? Was this all just a well-sorted plan to make The Great Sherlock Holmes crack?

"I'm not lying, Sherlock!" John was full of panic and anger. "Now would you tell me what the hell is going on in there?" He pointed to Sherlock's head. "Because whatever it is, it better be bloody important for you to bring up rubbish questions out of the blue!" He shouted till there was hardly any air left in his lungs.

Sherlock suddenly dropped to his knees, the grip on his hair tightening. Of course she wasn't a hired distraction. He didn't give himself enough credit. Of course he would have seen in. He would have noticed from the day he walked in on her in the shower. What she was, however, was a mystery. She was a mystery Sherlock couldn't even bring to a reasonable conclusion.

"I don't know what to do John," he admitted, "I don't know where to go. What to do." He was so incredibly frustrated.

John watched Sherlock crumble, unable to hide his awe. He was more than unused to seeing the brilliant man before him fall. In fact, he never thought he'd ever see the day. He didn't know where the out of place question came from. Was it another poor attempt to guess more about her? It was hardly the time.

"What did he say?" John asked, attempting to calm himself enough to help Sherlock calm as well.

"He said _this game would be a little cruel._" He purposely left out the bit about her seeing his face, not wanting to even think of what that meant for her fate.

"What, that's it?" John was flabbergasted, but pretended otherwise, at least long enough to get Sherlock's mind on the right track. "No photo hint? No pips?"

"No, John. No photos, no pips." He let go of his hair, looking up at John from where he kneeled on the floor.

John looked at the shadow of the man he once knew, pushing his own worry away so to help himself. It was purely selfish. He knew he couldn't find her on his own. He couldn't figure out what this sick bastard wanted. But Sherlock could. He needed Sherlock at his best; this was Rooney they had. No other woman on the planet was so important right now, other than Rooney.

"Think, Sherlock," John kneeled down next to the brilliant consulting detective. "Rooney was here all day. Mrs. Hudson might have seen something, right? Get up!" He garbed his jacket collar, forcefully giving him a nudge. "Was there any marks on the doors? Any sign of struggle? Come on!" He shouted, pushing him in all the right directions.

Sherlock was limp, seeming completely catatonic.

"Sherlock, she's fine right now, but who knows for how much longer. Now you're the world's best consulting detective—"

"Only consulting detective," Sherlock argued as he stayed limp.

"It doesn't matter! What matters is that you are the only one who can find her!" John began to lose his grip on his faux composure. If Sherlock wouldn't snap out of this, it would be impossible to find her. He could call Lestrade…but there would be little hope for her if it came to that.

Remnants of hope suddenly came back to John when Sherlock suddenly found it in himself to stand up straight. He stepped back from John, taking him in to help steady his mind. Memories of Rooney came back to him, reminding him of the times before he pushed her away. He thought about Rooney, and her telling him she did not like being told what to do.

If this mysterious masked bomber didn't kill yet, it meant there was hope. She was strong willed—and sharp. She was not a person to kidnap. She would eventually find her strength, and for reasons unknown to Sherlock, it gave him his own.

"You're right," he sounded as though there was nothing wrong. John couldn't care less at this moment, as he watched Sherlock quickly go down the hall to Rooney's room. He followed behind him, trying to keep his pace as he entered her room. Sherlock's eyes scanned the room, taking in everything he could. His mind found the composure it reached out for.

"She had been painting, okay. It was abstract. She was distraught. Rooney's art is very vivid. She wouldn't do abstract if she wasn't." Sherlock began to think out loud, going to her canvas and moved around the room. He stood where she would have, facing the fresh painting and looking at it. "There's paint on the ground. Not very professional, not for a professional artist."

John sighed in relief, not being able to see what he did and damn glad about it. Despite how messy John knew Rooney was, for her to leave paint on the floor was odd. Oil paint was expensive, at least the kind she used. She wouldn't let globs like this fall without trying to salvage.

"She heard something, something that made her go to her door," he looked at the drops of thick paint, the way they seemed to fall in an odd direction. She looked behind her before putting her brush down. The brush was in the holder, paint still all over the brush.

"That would explain the scalpel," he continued to think aloud, following her probable movements out the bedroom door. John followed him again, watching him go all the way back into the living area, where the silver blade had fallen.

"John, put the scalpel back down where you found it," he barked, standing exactly where it had fallen. John stepped around him when he did not move, kneeling down in front of Sherlock to put it back down.

"It was facing the wall?" He asked when John pointed the blade out the door.

"Uhh…" John thought, looked down at the blade. "Yes." He said, looking up at Sherlock then back down. "No," he kneeled down, turning the blade so its butt was facing the door.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked, examining the floor, the indents the blade made against the old floors as it fell.

"Yes," John thought, trying to remember such an insignificant detail.

Sherlock put the image of the silver blade falling into his mind. He could see it fall as she turned, noticing the indents and the way John claimed the blade fell. He was in the house, but she hadn't noticed. It meant he didn't break in.

"I need to talk to Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said to himself, his body jolting down the stairs suddenly.

"Wait, what? Sherlock, what did you see?" He asked, following him down the stairs. Sherlock did not stop to answer, moving his body swiftly all the way down until he reached Mrs. Hudson's door.

She did not answer at his first knock. He pounded the door a second time, not letting patience get the better of him. On the third, she opened, completely unaware of the panic going through both Sherlock and John.

"Hello boys," she was as oblivious as always.

"Hudson," Sherlock spoke too quickly for politeness, "did you see Rooney leave?"

"What?" She couldn't hide the surprise in her voice as the boys ambushed her doorway. "No, she should still be upstairs, painting. Oh, she was painting again! Isn't that great?"

"So, she did not leave? You did not see her?" John couldn't stop himself from blurting out his questions.

"John," Sherlock stopped him. "She didn't leave? You didn't see her?" He took his question for his own. John gave him a glare, but nothing long enough to let linger.

"What are you boys going on about?" The poor woman was terribly lost. "The last I saw of her was this morning. I gave her another fan letter," she smiled proudly.

"Of course," Sherlock said as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. Why hadn't he though of that at first? It was _he_ sending her the letters. Sherlock said nothing, before shooting back up the stairs. John sighed, exasperated.

"What on this good earth is going on with that man?" Mrs. Hudson asked, leaning through her doorway to watch the eccentric man waltz away.

"It's okay, Mrs. Hudson," John reassured. "He's just working."

"Working? Then what happened to Rooney?" She could hold back her shriek.

"It'll all under control," he lied.

Sherlock skipped steps while he climbed, noticing nothing at all out of place. The steps all held their normal guffs, the walls still niffed in the exact way they had when he left. She had left peacefully… of unconscious. Could it be he was lying about her seeing his face?

He hurried back to her room, where he had passed by an unopened letter. Of course these damn letters were more than they let on. "You sneaky bastards," Sherlock grumbled, picking it up. "I'm coming, Rooney," he made a promise to the inanimate page.

* * *

**Review! **


End file.
